Howl
by undyingflower
Summary: It was an unexpected feeling. He missed her. He shouldn't but he did and that only increased his desire to return to Winterfell. [Jon/Sansa]
1. Home

_I keep thinking you already know. I keep thinking I've sent you letters that were only ever written in my mind_ — Iain Thomas

* * *

After almost a year away from the North, Jon's feet touched the soil of Winterfell.

He looked around and smiled, feeling the winter's wind caressing his cheeks. Everything looked like he remembered it.

He was no longer Jon Snow – Eddard Stark's bastard. He was a Targaryen and a Stark; someone with a real name.

He never wanted to be a king. All he wanted to be was a Stark and to have a family. Being a Targaryen was something that he was still trying to get used to.

He had spent the last months in King's Landing, alongside with Daenerys. The Queen insisted on knowing the true heir of Rhaegar Targaryen; they were family now.

Jon never wanted to seat on the Iron Throne; his place was in Winterfell.

After long discussions about the future of the Seven Kingdoms, they agreed to rule together. Daenerys would stay in King's Landing and Jon would return home as the King in the North.

He missed his home. King's Landing was nothing compared to Winterfell. He was glad to be back.

Jon raised his hand to salute the guards as he made his way towards the castle.

After months of sleeping in a castle that didn't feel like home he was glad to finally be inside of a castle he knew like the back of his hand; to meet again the familiar sounds and smells that he longed for so long.

He remembered sleeping under stars – an attempt to be closer to his home; feeling the cold wind caressing his face made him feel closer to Winterfell. It reminded him of the time they defeated Bolton; the time they rebuilt the North and the standard of House Stark returned to Winterfell.

After the war it all felt like a dream, a beautiful dream.

Unconsciously, he found himself in front of the door of Sansa's chambers, despite the late hour.

They wrote letters to each other during the time he was away, but somehow that hadn't been enough to satisfy his desire to be near her.

He missed her. It was an unexpected feeling and despite his effort to not think of her, she managed to invade his dreams during the long nights he spent away from home. He missed her. He shouldn't but he did and that only increased his desire to return to Winterfell.

He told himself that the reason he was feeling that way was because they used to spend the days together: talking enthusiastically, sharing quiet moments, walking through Godswood with Ghost by their side – brother and sister's moments. Excuses he told himself to diminish the self-incrimination that was starting to creep up inside him. Deep down, he knew that Sansa and him never acted like siblings. He never saw Sansa the same way he used to see Arya; not when they were children and not when they met again in Castle Black, after years without seeing each other.

Jon was about to turn away from her chambers when the door opened and Sansa's figure appeared right in front of his eyes.

Before he could open his mouth and say something, Sansa's body collided against Jon's firmer one. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder.

His body reacted immediately.

He hugged her back as he took in the smell of her hair and skin. He closed his eyes. She smelled like lavender and daisies.

Jon slid his fingers through her hair, cradling the back of her head. It was an automatic action.

His left hand travelled down her back and found her waist.

Despite the cold nights of Winterfell, Sansa's nigh-rail was sleeveless and its hem hit her shins rather than brushing the floor. The furs on her bed were enough to warm her skin or so she thought. Jon's body pressed against her body made the furs look cold.

Sansa closed her eyes as she felt the warmth of his skin against hers. He smelled like North.

"Have you always been this warm?" – Sansa said against the skin of his neck, sending shivers down Jon's body.

She opened her eyes as soon as she heard her own voice saying those words; they were supposed to remain locked in her head, away from Jon's ears.

Suddenly, Jon took a step back, releasing her from his embrace. He could feel his cheeks turning red as Sansa's words echoed in his head.

His breath stopped for a moment as he saw that Sansa was only wearing a grey nigh-rail that allowed him to see the delicate porcelain skin of her cleavage. Her hair was hanging loose on her shoulders in a way it gave her a wild look. A redheaded beauty that made him want things that he shouldn't.

"I heard Ghost howling and knew that you were back" – her voice interrupted his thoughts and made him lock his eyes on hers.

When blue met gray Sansa heard her own heart beating against her ribcage.

Guilt and shame invaded her body as she looked at his mussed dark curls. The desire to stroke his hair made her clench her fists, so her body couldn't betray her once more.

After she found him in Castle Black she started to realize how handsome and brave and gentle Jon was. She started to look at him differently, and every time they were together she had to fight the perverse thoughts that insisted on invading her mind.

 _What kind of woman lusts for a brother?_ – she used to say to herself.

 _But he's not your brother. He never was_ – her conscience reminded her.

"Are you well? Unhurt?" – she asked, trying to control her thoughts.

"Aye" – Jon said, after clearing his throat – "Dirtier than when I left but unhurt" – he added with a shy smile.

"I'm glad to hear it, _Your Grace_ " – Sansa said teasingly with a matching smile – "Did you enjoy King's Landing?" – she asked.

"Not really" – Jon confessed – "I would want nothing more than to stay here and never come back to that diseased land they call a capital"

 _I'm a Northman. I belong here with you, not down south in that rat's nest they call a capital_ – Eddard Stark said once to Catelyn Stark.

"I've always wanted to live in the capital. To see the southern knights and King's Landing after dark. I was so foolish" – Sansa said, faking a laugh – "I never felt at home while I was there" – she explained – "Winterfell is my home. How come I could not see that sooner?"

They remained in silence looking at each other as if the answer was hidden inside their eyes; as if they _knew_ that the answer was hidden inside their eyes. They both realized that her question was not really about Winterfell but about them.

Sansa knew that Winterfell was only home because Jon was there. Jon knew that Winterfell was only home because Sansa was there.

"I don't know" – Jon said softly, feeling his cheeks flush. He looked down at his feet, avoiding eye-contact. He noticed that Sansa was barefoot – "Your feet must be cold"

Sansa followed his gaze and understood the double meaning of Jon's words.

Her hands found the iron handle of her door.

"Good night, Jon" – Sansa said, meeting Jon's eyes once more.

Jon was certain that no one had ever pronounced his name in such an attractive way as Sansa did.

"Good night, Sansa" – Jon managed to say before Sansa disappeared from his sight.

Once the door was closed Jon pressed his forehead against the wood and shut his eyes before turning around and pressing his back against it, unaware that on the other side of the door Sansa did the same thing.

* * *

 **I ship it. How can anyone not ship it after seeing their reunion? Their chemistry is insane!**

 **I promise next chapters will be longer.**

 **I hope you liked this chapter, dear readers! Please review!**


	2. Scars

**Thank you all for reading, commenting and following! The response to this story caught me by surprise and your reviews made me so happy! Thank you, thank you, thank you for your support!**

 **Happy reading!**

* * *

 _Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person_ — Sylvia Plath

* * *

Jon fell on the bed as soon as he entered in his bedchamber.

He had spent the whole morning with his council and some leaders of the factions in the North, looking over maps and sharing opinions about the best way to rule the Seven Kingdoms.

He was tired. His head hurt and all he wanted to do was to never return to those endless meetings about the future of Westeros; about his future. He was tired of hours of debate.

He tried not to think about last night and his encounter with Sansa, but his mind refused to erase her image from his head. Not even the boring conversations were able to distract him.

He got out of the bed and made his way out of his chambers. He needed some fresh air and to feel the winter wind touching his skin.

He walked through the training yard and remembered the times he used to spend there with Robb, Bran, Arya and sometimes even Rickon.

In his childhood memories he could always find Robb, Bran, Arya and Rickon, never Sansa.

As much as he tried to force his mind to remember a sweet moment between them when they were children, he couldn't. The Sansa that his memory offered him was a girl who liked dolls and needlework; a girl who liked to be a lady and refused to talk with her bastard brother. Those memories were so far away from the present that sometimes he didn't know if they were real at all.

The sound of a scream invaded his ears and made him run towards the place where the sound was coming from.

As he entered into the woods the screams changed and turned into giggles.

"Ghost, you almost ripped the laces of my gown" – he heard a familiar voice saying.

Jon hid himself behind a tree and watched Sansa caressing Ghost's fur.

"You're lucky I love you" – she said and a strange sensation invaded Jon's stomach.

Ghost started to run and Sansa followed him.

Her hair was not loose but she looked as wild as last night. The top of her long braid was a little mussed, probably because of the soft wind that insisted on touching her hair, but Sansa didn't seem to mind.

Jon could see her dark boots touching the snow as she ran.

She was wearing a blue gown, simple but beautiful, that made her look like a Queen – the Queen of Winter(fell). Despite the cold weather, Sansa didn't wear any furs; she was used to the cold, like him; the cold was part of her, making her a true woman of the North.

Jon continued to watch her until her figure disappeared between the high trees. He was about to follow her when a snow ball hit his back.

"Since when do kings hide themselves behind trees?" – her voice made him turn his body. Before he could say something in return, another snow ball hit his chest and the sound of Sansa's laugh invaded his ears – "You're such a good tracker, Ghost" – Sansa said as Ghost sniffed her hand.

"Traitor!" – Jon accused the direwolf, smiling at the same time.

When Jon's eyes found Sansa's smile he was almost sure that he hadn't seen true beauty until then.

Her smile was beautiful – white as snow but warm as fire.

At that moment Jon regretted all the times he wished he was a Stark. At that moment he thanked all Gods for not being Eddard Stark's son.

Maybe it was fate, maybe there was a reason for Jon and Sansa never been close when they were children… Maybe there was a reason for them to find each other after so many years.

At that moment Jon was happy for being a Snow for so long.

"Were you looking for Ghost?" – Sansa asked when Ghost approached him for a scratch – "Sorry for stealing him from you" – she added, before Jon could answer her question.

Sansa tried to disguise the sadness from her voice but somehow Jon understood what she was trying to say.

Sansa had no direwolf. Jon knew that that was one of the many wounds that would never heal; that Sansa would always feel the pain cutting her heart every time her mind insisted on thinking of Lady. Ghost was a stark reminder of what Sansa had lost – Lady.

"I believe he has grown quite found of you" – Jon said – "He was miserable all the time we were in King's Landing" – he added, making Sansa laugh.

 _Gods, how he loved that sound._

"So if you were not looking for Ghost, then …" – Sansa started to say.

"I thought I heard someone screaming" – Jon quickly explained as he followed Sansa through the Godswood.

"I was tired of being inside the castle walls" – she said, gathering up her skirts and looking at her dark boots as they touched the white snow.

Jon was glad she didn't ask him why he had hidden himself behind a tree. He didn't know if he would have a good answer for that question.

"You didn't join me for breakfast" – Sansa declared, feeling Jon beside her – "Did you meet with your council?" – she asked.

"One of the downsides of being a King" – Jon sighed.

"It's better than to be in the battlefield" – Sansa said so low that if Jon wasn't right beside her he wouldn't have heard her.

The idea of Jon in the battlefield made Sansa's stomach contract and twist into a knot.

Ghost was trotting at Jon's side when a sound caught his attention. The direwolf wagged his tail and hit Jon's torso, before making his way towards the Wolfwoods.

As soon as Ghost's tail touched his body, Jon felt an intense pain near his ribs that made him stop walking.

He clenched his jaw, trying to control his body and disguise the pain. Sansa eyed him suspiciously and he faked a smile, trying to convince her that everything was fine.

Sansa opened her mouth but Jon was faster:

"It's nothing" – he said, answering Sansa's unspoken words.

Before he could react, Sansa reached for his tunic and lifted it. His abdominal muscles reacted as soon as her cold fingers touched his skin.

Sansa's eyes widened when she saw the livid bruises that were plaguing his skin and a bandage wrapped around his torso stained with blood.

"Sansa…" – Jon tried to say.

"You told me you were unhurt" – Sansa said with a serious voice – "Is this your definition of _unhurt_?" – she asked sharply.

The way Sansa was looking at him and the tone of her voice should have made him feel uncomfortable, but instead of that Jon caught himself grinning at her. She was scolding him and he was smiling at the beautiful woman in front of him.

"This isn't funny, Jon!" – Sansa said harshly, releasing his tunic – "You told me you were unhurt" – she added, crossing her arms over her chest. She took a deep breath – "What happened? Were you attacked?" – she asked, biting her lower lip.

Her concern warmed Jon's heart and he had to fight every impulse in his body to not caress her cheek.

"No, I was not attacked" – he started to explain – "I was training with the Kingsguard and got a little distracted, that's all" – he said, remembering the incident and trying not to look at Sansa.

His eyes found a lonely vivid blue wildflower in one of the many shrubs that surrounded them. His feet started to move towards the shrubs, but before he could pick the flower Sansa grabbed his hand and made him turn his attention back to her.

"We need to go back to the castle" – she said still holding Jon's warm hand.

As they made their way towards the castle, a memory invaded Jon's mind:

 _He was in his tent, looking at the missive for about an hour._

 _He was only a couple of days away from Winterfell when a raven arrived with a message from his Aunt._

 _He didn't know how many times he read the letter – a useless attempt to change the words in the missive._

 _Some high lord – Lord Lake – was seeking for Sansa's hand in marriage. The idea of a man touching her delicate skin made him feel sick. A strange and possessive feeling invaded his body._

 _He ripped the missive and grabbed his quill pen. He was being selfish. He knew that under different circumstances Sansa would be already married, probably with children and a life of her own. But that was under different circumstances._

 _He didn't want her to marry a stranger He didn't know anything about this Lord Lake; he could be a bad man; he could be worse than Ramsay Bolton – excuses he told himself as he wrote the letter, declining the offer._

 _Once he finished the letter he grabbed his sword and got out of his tent. Some men of the Kingsguard were training and he decided to join them._

 _The sound of steel hitting steel ran in his ears but somehow the words in the letter continued to echo in his head. He tried to erase them as he attacked one of the guards with his sword._

 _He didn't know how this Lord Lake looked like but his brain insisted on showing him images of Sansa smiling at Lord Lake; Sansa wrapped in Lord Lake's arms; Sansa kissing Lord Lake._

 _The images were slowing down his movements and making him feel dizzy. Before he could react the knight's sword hit his ribs, making him fall on the ground and an excruciating pain invaded his body._

" _I'm so sorry, Your Grace. I didn't mean to …" – the guard immediately said, dropping his sword._

" _My fault" – Jon said through gritted teeth, trying to diminish the pain as he got up from the ground – "I was distracted. My mind was elsewhere" – he explained._

Just like the night before, Jon found himself in front of Sansa's chambers. This time he wasn't alone.

He looked at their entwined fingers and suddenly it felt like his body was on fire.

Sansa opened the door and before he could protest she dragged him to inside the chamber.

When she closed the door, Jon didn't feel like a king at all; he felt like a fish out of water gasping for air.

This was not the first time they were together in her chamber. They had spent many nights in this room writing missives, bent over ledgers, talking about plans to rebuild Winterfell, and in each one of those encounters Jon was glad for the several interruptions, every time a servant opened the door, allowing him to breathe and fight the perverse thoughts in his mind.

Sansa released his hand and opened a drawer. Jon looked at his hand and felt the loss of her hand in his.

He looked at Sansa as she opened another drawer. He saw her tucking a strand of hair behind her hair and noticed a small snowflake in her braid. It looked like a piece of jewelry.

Sansa turned her body and made her way towards him. She was holding a piece of cloth and Jon could hear his heart beating against his chest already knowing why Sansa had dragged him to her chamber.

"I need you to take off your tunic" – Sansa said and suddenly Jon's face heated.

"Sansa, I'm well, truly" – Jon managed to say – "You don't need to…"

"You need a new bandage" – she insisted, lifting his tunic.

Jon looked at the ceiling as soon as he felt her delicate fingers touching his chest.

Sansa bit her lower lip and tried to focus on her task instead of how warm Jon's skin was; how beautiful his body was.

 _Have you always been this warm?_ – her words from last night echoed in her mind.

Unconsciously, she started to trace one of the many scars that were plaguing Jon's chest.

Jon shuddered and Sansa stopped the movement of her fingers, suddenly realizing what she was doing.

She cleared her throat.

"I need you to take off your tunic" – she repeated, trying to disguise the trembling in her voice – "You should have let me bind the wound as soon as you arrived home" – she added as Jon pulled his tunic over his head.

Sansa looked at his bare chest and silence invaded the room. _He was beautiful._

Jon's eyes found hers and this time it was Sansa who looked away.

She forced her hands to unbind the dirty bandage and told her mind to focus on the wound and not on the rest of Jon's body.

She should have known this was bad idea. She was supposed to fight her impulses, not succumb to them … but as soon as she saw that Jon was injured she felt the need to heal him, to stop his pain, to make him whole again. It was a strange feeling. She didn't think twice when she lifted his tunic. It was an automatic action, like when she had thrown her arms around Jon's neck.

It was like she was drawn to him. She shouldn't, but she was.

 _He only sees you like a sister_ – a little voice inside her head spoke – _He doesn't return your feelings._

Sansa tried to act normal.

What would Jon think of her if he knew about her perverse thoughts? They may be cousins, but he would always see her like a sister.

 _Why couldn't she see him as a brother as well?_ – she yelled in her mind.

When she finished binding the new bandage around his torso, she allowed her eyes to look at him.

"Thank you" – Jon said, gently touching her hand – the one that was still on the bandage.

Sansa immediately took a step back, trying to increase the distance between them so his hand was no longer on hers.

"You're welcome" – Sansa said, running her hand through her hair and destroying the snowflake in her braid. Jon remained in silence looking at the spot where the snowflake used to be – "I'll see you at dinner" – she added.

When Jon walked out of Sansa's chamber the small snowflake was still in his mind.

He smiled as an idea popped into his head.

He might never put a crown upon her red hair, but he could certainly try to make the snowflake permanent … because sometimes the snow was not doomed to melt.

* * *

 **I hope you liked this chapter. I know the Jon and Sansa buildup is slow, but I'm trying to be as realistic as I can, considering they spent their whole lives thinking they were siblings, so … Until then, the tension between them is going to keep building.**

 **Prepare yourself for next chapters, things are about to get interesting in Winterfell!**

 **Love you guys! (don't forget to tell me what you think!)**


	3. Damsel in distress?

_And I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us any more_ — Franz Kafka

* * *

Sansa was walking through the corridors of the castle, trying to figure it out what to do. She was running out of ideas.

Since her last encounter with Jon she had tried to keep herself busy; to put some distance between them … but she was growing tired of needlework.

She tried to distract herself by riding her horse and reading some books but after almost a month doing the exact same things she was bored.

She spent most of her time in her bedchamber and solar. Sometimes she walked through the Godswood alone, since she was also avoiding Ghost. The direwolf was an extension of Jon.

Avoiding Jon proved to be an easy task. The council meetings stole most of his time. Sansa knew that he hated those meetings but as King he could not avoid his advisers and responsibilities forever.

According to Jon those meetings were boring and tedious, and most men of the council used words so complicated and sophisticated that only made his head hurt. He preferred spending his time in the Great Hall, listening the demands and complaints of the smallfolk. That was what made him feel like a true king; having the power to change things. Helping people made him feel useful.

He loved that feeling. Some monarchs probably considered that job an endless torment but he liked to be near the people, to hear their stories and to have the power to change their lives for the better.

On the other hand, looking over the inventories of the city, reading missives and being surrounded by piles of paper was not so pleasant.

Jon's responsibilities as king made it easy for Sansa to avoid him. She knew that she couldn't avoid him forever – she didn't want to avoid him forever – but she hoped that the distance between them would help her see things clearly and make her look at Jon as her brother, despite the fact that she never looked at him that way.

She was so focused on her own thoughts that she almost jumped when she felt the touch of a hand pulling her out of the corridor and behind a stone pillar.

The small scream that escaped from her lips ceased to exist as soon as soon as she saw the smirk on his mouth. He was obviously enjoying the fact that he had scared her.

"You scared me" – Sansa said, putting her right hand over her chest, releasing her arm from Jon's embrace.

"Are you avoiding me?" – Jon asked.

Sansa's breath caught at his words. She tried to focus on anything but him but it was practically impossible since she was pinned between the hard stone pillar and Jon's body.

"What? No… Why would you think that?" – she managed to say. Before Jon could insist, Sansa spoke again – "Why are you wearing your cloak?" – she asked, trying to change the subject.

Jon sighed.

"I need a day to be Jon" – he said low, taking off the hood that was covering his raven curls – "Not _King_ Jon, only Jon" – he explained, making Sansa roll her eyes.

"First you hide behind trees and now you hide behind pillars. I'm not sure that's an improvement" – she teased him, unable to hide the smile from her face.

It felt so natural to talk to him that she almost forgot why she had tried so hard to avoid being in the same room as he.

"Desperate times require desperate measures, I'm afraid" – Jon said after making sure that there was no one in the corridor – "I have something for you" – he added, turning his attention back to Sansa – "I've wanted to give you this sooner but –"

"I've been busy" – Sansa quickly said, already knowing what Jon was about to say. _Busy avoiding you_ – she added to herself.

"Of course" – Jon said, clearing his throat. He pulled a small pouch out of his pocket and reached for her hand – "I ordered it from a jeweler" – he added as Sansa pulled the drawstrings to untie the pouch.

Her eyes popped wide open as soon as she saw the small hairpin that looked exactly like a small snowflake; it was perfect.

"Jon…" – Sansa gasped; her fingers touching gently the delicate snowflake, fearing that it would melt at any moment. It was the most beautiful jewelry she'd ever seen – "You shouldn't have … It's not even my nameday"

"It's made of Dragonglass and covered by silver" – Jon explained – "I thought it would suit you" – he said as the memory of a small snowflake in her hair invaded his mind.

"Thank you" – Sansa said, looking up at him. Her voice was barely a whisper.

Jon reached for her hand and grabbed the snowflake. Before Sansa could react, Jon touched her hair and put the hairpin in the middle of the braid (in the same spot the real snowflake had been a month ago).

"I _knew_ it would suit you" – Jon said as Sansa turned her head so she could see the little snowflake sparkling in her braid.

When she looked back at him she bit her lower lip, trying to control her body and not jump into Jon's strong arms. No one has ever offered her something so expensive – so beautiful – as Jon just did.

She took a step back and looked around the corridors, making sure that no council members were around.

She tilted her body towards him, decreasing the small distance between them. For a second Jon thought that she was going to kiss him. When Sansa put his hood over his head, covering his dark hair, he released the air he didn't know it was trapped in his lungs.

 _Of course she wasn't going to kiss you_ – he thought, trying to compose himself.

Sansa grabbed Jon's calloused hand and pushed him out of the stone pillar.

"What are you doing?" – Jon said low as Sansa dragged him through the corridors.

"I'm stealing you" – Sansa whispered, forcing Jon to follow her but the King's feet were glued to the ground. She looked over at him and Jon arched an eyebrow – "Don't you want to escape?" – she asked narrowing her eyes so Jon could see that she wasn't jesting.

Jon couldn't take his eyes off of her. She looked so free and wild. She never acted like this. Arya used to act like this … but when Jon looked at Sansa he couldn't see Arya. He could only see Sansa and how beautiful she was.

"You do know it's a crime to steal a King, don't you?" – Jon said, not even trying to disguise the smile on his face.

Before Sansa could reply, Jon put a hand over her mouth and pulled her behind a stone pillar. They remained in silence, hidden in the shadows, as one of Jon's advisors made his way towards the Great Hall.

Sansa could feel the warmth of Jon's hand on her lips and tried not to think about how warm his lips must be. She could also feel Jon's breath touching her skin. His mouth was right next to her ear. Jon's beard was so much softer than Sansa had imagined, and she allowed herself to close her eyes and inhale his scent.

"You're a terrible thief" – Jon hoarsely said when Lord Slate disappeared from view, making Sansa open her eyes and return to reality.

"Well, you're a terrible thing to steal" – she retorted, smoothing out her skirts and making her way out of the stone pillar.

Jon followed her.

"That doesn't make any sense" – he laughed, making Sansa laugh as well, as they walked through the corridor.

"Of course it does, _Your_ _Grace_ " – Sansa said, emphasizing the last word.

Jon was about to protest when a voice echoed through the hall, startling both Sansa and Jon.

"Your Grace!" – Lord Slate exclaimed, walking towards them.

Jon clenched his teeth in frustration. He'd never wanted to punch someone as much as he did at that moment.

He had tried so hard to escape and now the old man found them.

Why couldn't they leave him alone? Was that so much to ask? He was tired of compliments and empty words.

Jon wasn't sure if it was Sansa's small hand touching his or the gentle sound of her voice, but he slowly felt the anger leaving his body.

"We can still escape" – she gently said, tilting her head towards him.

Smiling from ear to ear, Jon didn't think twice. He grabbed her hand and pulled her close to him.

He looked over his shoulder. Lord Slate was shouting and waving a missive, trying to catch his attention but Jon ignored him.

Before the old man could reach them, Sansa and Jon started to run through the hall. Not even Lord Slate's words were enough to erase the echo of Sansa and Jon's laughs – two children running away to play.

* * *

When they reached Godswood Jon and Sansa were still laughing. After a few minutes the laughs ended and they walked in silence – a comfortable silence.

The sun was shining and the snow had melted, allowing the green of the grass to glow on a ground that was usually white. The steam of the hot springs made the air warm and they could almost pretend that it was already spring.

For the first time in weeks Jon felt free.

He could see from the corner of his eye Sansa touching the snowflake in her braid, making him smile.

He'd missed her. Each time he took off his tunic and looked at the little scar next to his ribs he remembered the touch of her fingers on his skin, the look of concern on her face, the gentle way she put the bandage around his torso.

He'd missed her voice and their conversations. The way he could be just Jon when they were together. The way he could share his troubles with her. The way he could allow himself to be vulnerable – human – around her; he didn't need to pretend, to wear a mask. He could tell her anything … well, almost anything.

"I'm terrible" – Jon's voice broke the silence. Sansa looked at him, confused – "I'm terrible at being King" – he explained, avoiding eye-contact.

"You're perfect" – Sansa immediately said, making Jon look at her – "At being King" – she explained, feeling her cheeks flush – "You're different. A good kind of different. You don't mind hearing petitions from the smallfolk and you're an excellent teacher. I've seen you in the training yard and you are always so patient when you're teaching the boys how to fight" – she continued to say, smiling at the same time – "Most kings don't do that. Most kings just sit on a throne while the rest of the people work. Most kings don't even know their lands, but you do. So no, you're not a terrible king, Jon"

Sansa's words made him feel better. They always did. She was so good with words, unlike him.

"I hate the council meetings" – he said, remembering the boring conversations and his responsibilities as king.

"Everybody hates the council meetings. I'm sure your Aunt hates it as well" – Sansa declared.

"But she knows how to disguise it" – Jon insisted – "She's good at dealing with the High Lords and the political matters" – _like you_ – he added to himself.

"And that's why you two rule together" – Sansa said. She stopped walking so Jon could really listen to her – "She wouldn't know how to rule the North without your help" – she declared, meaning every word.

"I wouldn't know how to rule the North without _your_ help" – Jon said, remembering all the times Sansa helped him write missives, make decisions, talk with High Lords and more … She should be the King, not him.

Sansa turned her body, fearing that Jon would hear her heart pounding like a drum.

"Good, because I want to ask you something" – she managed to say, trying to disguise the nervous from her voice. Jon remained in silence, waiting for Sansa to continue – "Teach me how to fight" – she finally said, turning her body so she could face him.

She'd wanted to ask him that for a very long time, but never seemed to find the right time, or the right words, to tell him that.

"Sansa…" – Jon tried to say but Sansa was faster.

"I want to learn how to defend myself" – she explained, already knowing that Jon would be against her.

Needlework and songs no longer sufficed her. Sansa wanted – _needed_ – to be something more than a mere lady. She wanted people to look at her differently. She wanted people to look at her and see a grown woman who knew how to defend herself. She wanted people to know that she was not a pawn.

"I don't like the idea of you using a weapon, Sansa" – Jon said, trying to make her change her mind.

"Why not? Because I'm only supposed to wear pretty jewels?" – she snapped – "You offered Arya a sword!" – she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest.

"That's different…" – Jon tried to explain.

"Why?" – Sansa insisted.

 _Why?_ – her words echoed in his mind – _Because I cannot bear the thought of someone threatening you or terrorizing you. Because the thought of you being forced to wield a sword to defend yourself makes me sick. Because I don't want you to have a reason to use a weapon. Because I don't want you to get hurt._

How could he explain to her that the mere thought of losing her was unbearable?

"Because you're not supposed to need to use a weapon. I'm King now. I can protect you" – Jon simply said – "A sword is not a toy. You could get hurt" – he added, trying to erase the image of her soft hands covered by blood.

"So teach me how to fight without using a sword or any sort of blade" – Sansa said, raising her chin defiantly and looking him in the eye.

 _She's not going to give up_ – Jon said to himself.

Images of Joffrey and Ramsay beating her invaded his mind, making him understand her request.

A lady was not supposed to carry weapons, but Sansa didn't need a blade to defend herself _._ He could help her without fearing to harm her.

"Alright" – Jon finally said, letting his cloak fall on the ground.

He raised his hands and Sansa clenched her fists. Jon told her to hit the palm of his left hand with her right hand. Then he asked her to hit the palm of his right hand using her left hand. She did as he asked.

At first Jon could barely feel her fists hitting his hands but after a few tries Sansa's punching power increased.

He could see that she was fully committed to the training. Before she could hit his right hand again, he grabbed her wrist.

Sansa was ready to protest but Jon was faster.

"If a man comes at you, hit him in the throat" – he explained, leading her fist towards his throat – "You take away his breath and he'll go right to his knees. Do you understand?" – he added, looking right into Sansa's eyes.

Sansa nodded, licking her lips. Jon grabbed her other arm and turned her around so that her back was to his front.

"You just have to put your whole body into it" – Jon continued to explain, making Sansa shiver as soon as she felt his breath touching her skin – "To maximize your power, you need to have both feet firmly planted on the ground" – he said, running his hands over Sansa's shoulders and down her sides before reaching her hips – "This will not only increase your punching power but it'll also help you to maintain your balance should you swing and miss"

She could hear her own heart beating against her ribcage as Jon's warm hands touched her body. Not even the thick fabric of her gown prevented her from feeling the warmth of his hands on her skin.

She looked at him but his eyes were focused on his own hands.

"I always told myself that if I had a daughter or a wife, I'd teach them how to defend themselves" – Jon confessed.

As soon as he heard his own voice saying those words he stepped back slightly. He shouldn't have said that. Sansa was not his wife. She was his sister – his cousin.

Jon shook his head and cleared his throat before moving his body so he was once more in front of her.

He raised his hands and Sansa punched his left hand.

"You need to make a habit of bending your knees when you're punching" – he said after a few seconds – "Bend your knees and repeat those punches again"

Sansa bit her lower lip and did as he asked. She was right, he was an excellent teacher.

As Jon continued to explain to her how to increase her punching power she realized that she was actually enjoying herself. She didn't think she would like to throw punches at someone but she did. She knew that a lady shouldn't enjoy this kind of things but she did. It made her feel stronger, powerful. She liked that feeling.

"Three quick jabs to the stomach, one to the throat" – she repeated Jon's words.

"And he'll go right to his knees" – Jon completed.

"I should have learned this sooner" – Sansa said. Her hands clenched to fists at her sides, her jaw set firm as stone as Joffrey and Ramsay's faces invaded her mind – "Will you teach me more tomorrow, Jon?" – she asked.

"Of course" – he said, making his cousin smile.

Sansa spun around in a quick circle, ignoring the hot spring that was only two steps away from her.

She stumbled over the tree root and fell into the water.

Jon immediately ran towards the hot spring. He was about to jump into the spring when Sansa popped out of the water. She was completely drenched.

Jon gulped. Her gown was clutched to her body, leaving little to imagination. _Seven Hells_.

The chilled breeze made Sansa sink into the water. She looked up and grinned at Jon.

"I think this means the lesson is over" – she said.

She extended her hand to Jon so he could help her climb out of the hot spring.

As soon as Jon reached Sansa's hand she pushed him towards her, making him fall into the pool. When he came up Sansa tried to stifle a laugh. His dark hair was plastered down across his forehead and he looked more confused than ever.

"What …" – he tried to say as his eyes adjusted to the surroundings and finally focused on her figure.

"I've always wanted to do this" – Sansa said, swimming towards him.

"To throw me into the water?" – Jon asked, running his fingers through his dark curls and arching an eyebrow.

Sansa smiled.

"No" – she said – "To swim in these springs" – she explained – "I never did this. It was not very ladylike" – she added. After a few seconds of silence she spoke again – "I thought I was doing the right thing but in the end she was the one who was right"

 _Arya_. Sansa didn't have to say her name. Jon knew that she was talking about their little sister.

Arya and the rest of the boys used to swim in these springs. He could still hear the sound of her laugh and the way she used to say "Throw me, Jon!" making it impossible for him to say no.

"Do you think she's alive?" – Sansa softly asked.

"Yes" – Jon immediately said – "And I know that we'll find her. No matter how long it takes, we will find her"

"Maybe she'll be the one to find us…" – Sansa said.

 _Like you found me… –_ Jon said to himself.

"And I'll tell her about my fighting skills" – Sansa continued to say, splashing water at Jon.

She bit her lower lip, trying not to laugh at Jon's shocked face.

Jon ran his hand through his damp hair and then looked at the woman in front of him.

"You do know it's a crime to splash a King, don't you?" – he said, tilting his body towards her, decreasing the small distance between them.

"Jon…" – Sansa tried to say but it was already too late.

Jon grabbed her waist and leapt backwards, pulling her with him as they disappeared beneath the dark waters of the hot spring.

When they came up, they were both drenched from head to toe. The steam wafted around their bodies.

Sansa splashed water at Jon and swam till the edge of the pool – a useless attempt to escape from him.

Jon swam towards her, ignoring the water that she kept throwing at him.

Sansa tried to climb out of the hot spring but Jon was faster. He grabbed her waist and she was unable to stop the laugh that escaped from her lips. Jon turned her around so he could see her face.

Unconsciously, Sansa wrapped her legs around his waist as her fingers played with the curls at the nape of his neck.

The warmth of Sansa's body so close was overwhelming and a burning shameful desire started to invade Jon's body.

Only when their eyes met Sansa noticed their current position. She was above Jon and his eyes were darker than ever.

She could feel his hands on the curve of her waist. Drops of water were rolling down his face and Sansa caught herself looking at his lips.

Instinctively, she tilted her head, decreasing the distance between them. Jon lifted his right hand so he could reach her face, but before his fingers could caress Sansa's cheek the sound of a wolf howling woke them both.

Jon blinked his eyes; his hands pushing at Sansa's hips until her legs were no longer wrapped around his torso.

"We should go before Lord Slate decides to send a patrol" – he managed to say, stumbling back a few steps.

"Of course" – Sansa laughed mirthlessly, feeling her cheeks burn.

Jon climbed out of the hot spring and helped Sansa get out of the water. He held her hand and avoided eye contact. He saw his cloak on the ground and put it over Sansa's shoulders, before she could catch a chill.

Even if they were outside the castle walls Sansa felt like she was in a cage. They were walking in utter silence and this time it was not a comfortable silence. It was an awkward silence, and Sansa hated awkward silences. It made her want to scream and it certainly didn't help that Jon was purposely avoiding looking at her.

 _Like you avoided being in the same room as him these last weeks_ – a little voice inside her head spoke.

Suddenly a thought invaded her mind so abruptly that she nearly staggered.

 _What if what she was feeling wasn't quite as one-sided as she thought?_

 _What if that was why he refused to look at her?_

 _What if that was why his eyes became darker when they were in the hot spring?_

 _There was nothing fraternal about the way Jon held her in the pool, was it?_

Maybe it was the scent of Jon all over her or the memory of his hands on her body that was making her feel bold enough to make a move.… or maybe she was just tired of pretending – pretending to be the sister she never was.

She needed to do something before they reached the castle.

Sansa took a deep breath and spoke:

"I lied to you" – she said and Jon looked at her, confused – "When you asked me if I was avoiding you and I said no … that was a lie" – she explained, meeting his gaze.

 _She knows_ – Jon thought – _She knows how I feel about her and she doesn't feel the same way. Gods. She probably thinks I'm worse than the Lannisters._

"Was it something that I did?" – Jon managed to ask, feeling anxious – "I've never wanted to make you feel uncomfortable"

"You didn't. You never make me feel uncomfortable, Jon" – Sansa quickly said – "I like to spend time with you" – she confessed – "When you were in King's Landing I felt so … incomplete"

Jon's eyes widened as soon as he heard Sansa's words. He had felt the same way – incomplete.

"Then why did you –" – Jon tried to say.

"Because I feel too guilty" – Sansa interrupted him, trying to disguise her trembling voice.

She could feel her own heart beating against her ribcage when she met his gray eyes.

"Guilty for what?" – Jon asked the inevitable question, looking right into Sansa's eyes, unable to disguise the hope in his voice.

 _Just say the words, Sansa. Just say the words so we can go back to that spring._

 _Say that you don't see me like a brother. Say that and there's hope for the two of us._

"For wanting what I want" – Sansa said so low that Lord Slate's voice erased her words.

"Your Grace!" – the old man exclaimed, making it impossible for Jon to hear Sansa's words – "I've been looking for you everywhere" – he added, bowing his head.

 _Of course you have_ – Jon said to himself, clenching his jaw.

"Lady Sansa" – the old man said, looking at Sansa.

Jon narrowed his eyes when he noticed the way Lord Slate was looking at her. Not even his cloak was enough to cover Sansa's wet clothes.

A possessive feeling invaded Jon's body when he saw the way Lord Slate's eyes linger over her body. Jon moved his body so he could block his view of Sansa.

"I'd like to have a moment with my cousin" – Jon said harshly, trying to get rid of the man. He was tired of his interruptions.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but it is important" – he insisted.

 _So is this! –_ Jon yelled in his mind.

He was about to protest when he looked around the courtyard and saw some men he'd never seen before, bowing their heads.

The sound of a horse neighing caught his attention and he finally noticed the big carriage that stood only a few steps away from him. Before he could ask Lord Slate if they were expecting any guests the door of the carriage opened and a brown haired woman touched the soil of Winterfell.

* * *

 **I know, I know, cliffhanger!**

 **I hope you liked this chapter, I really enjoyed writing it! So, any ideas about what is going to happen next?**

 **Please review! Love you guys! (:**

 **PS: I made a Jon/Sansa video, if you want to see it just check my youtube channel (mentioned on my profile) or follow this link: a href=" watch?v=gYXL6VWLKaY"Jon &Sansa – For the first time/a**


	4. Thorns

**Some things will diverge from season 6 episode 10. I know you will probably hate me for this but I had this planned since I started this story. Anyway, I hope you like this chapter! I'm so sorry for the waiting!**

 **Happy reading!**

* * *

 _There's only one kind of happiness, but misfortune comes in all shapes and sizes. It's like Tolstoy said. Happiness is an allegory, unhappiness a story_ ― Haruki Murakami

* * *

Sansa wanted nothing more than to hide herself in a big _big_ hole.

She was completely drenched, her hair was a mess and her gown was ruined. She looked like the exact opposite of the beautiful woman walking towards her. Not even Jon's body blocking some of her view diminished her nerves.

Sansa started to feel small as the woman approached them.

Years had passed since she last saw her but the former Queen looked just like Sansa remembered her. Her long brown hair was held away from her face in two small braids, her big brown eyes still had the same sparkle, her lips insisted on creating an easy smile and despite the cold wind she was wearing a silk gown that exposed more skin than the typical gowns northern women used to wear.

Sansa bit her lower lip, preparing herself for the inevitable encounter and embarrassment but then she realized that the woman's eyes were not focused on hers. For a split second Sansa thought that she was invisible … until she followed her gaze and saw were it lingered – Jon.

Suddenly her heart started to beat faster. Margaery Tyrell wasn't there because of her. She didn't travel towards North to see her. She didn't leave Highgarden to meet her after all these years. She couldn't even recognize her.

She was there because of Jon. She was there to be Queen – Jon's Queen.

 _I'm stupid. A stupid little girl with stupid dreams who never learns_ – words from her past started to echo in her mind.

Fate had a twisted sense of humor. She was finally ready to admit her feelings for Jon and now it was all ruined.

The rational part of her was glad Jon hadn't heard her confession; the other part – her heart – was breaking into tiny little pieces. She had wasted so much time; so many opportunities to tell him about how she didn't see him as a brother but as a man – a beautiful man who made her want things; who made her dream about a happy future; who made her believe in songs again.

 _I'm stupid. A stupid little girl with stupid dreams who never learns_ – the words invaded her mind again.

She should have learned by now that happiness was not in the cards for her.

Life was not a song. Life was a cruel joke – Sansa realized as she watched Margaery's mouth quirk into a smile (an annoying smile), ignoring her completely.

 _She probably thinks I'm a service girl_ – she thought, glad for the hood that covered her hair and face.

Her auburn hair was mussed and darker but Sansa didn't regret falling into the pool. She only regretted the things that would never happen.

"Your Grace" – Margaery finally spoke, bowing her head and offering her hand.

As Jon's lips touched Margaery's hand, Sansa made her way towards the castle.

* * *

For the first time, Jon was glad Lord Slate was by his side, otherwise he would never have guessed the name of the woman in front of him.

When the man whispered the name _Lady Margaery Tyrell_ , Jon tried to remain with a neutral face. Despite the fact that this was the first time he met Margaery Tyrell, Jon already knew her. Her name was frequently mentioned during the council meetings. Even Daenerys had mentioned her during his time in King's Landing.

His marriage prospects seemed to be a subject that no one wanted to forget.

Daenerys wanted a dynasty and Jon was the only one who could ensure that. The price for Khal Drogo's life had been too high and Daenerys knew that the only children that she would ever have were her dragons, which meant that Jon had the responsibility to continue the Targaryen lineage.

House Tyrell was an important House; an ally that House Targaryen could not afford to lose. The Tyrells were the Wardens of the South and they controlled the majority of the food supply; they were rich and they had an army.

According to his advisors, Margaery was the perfect bride. Jon found her calculating and ambitious, too ambitious. She wanted another crown. Apparently three hadn't been enough to satisfy her.

According to Daenerys they needed to keep an eye on her and the best way to do that was to keep the Tyrells close and establish a connection with them. Jon quickly understood the double meaning of the word _connection_.

Even if his Aunt never forced him to marry Margaery, Jon knew that their marriage would benefit the realm. House Tyrell was one of the richest families in the country; rich enough to start a war – a rebellion – and try to take the throne again. A marriage could prevent that. Margaery would gain a crown and her heirs would be the heirs to the throne. There would be no need for a war.

"Lady Margaery" – Jon spoke – "I hope your trip was pleasant" – he added, looking at her.

"It was, Your Grace" – Margaery said smiling – "Unfortunately winter is ending. I was looking forward to seeing the snow. Sansa used to tell me that not even the green mountains of Highgarden could compete with the white lands of the North"

The mention of Sansa made him look over his shoulder. Jon immediately noticed that his cousin was no longer by his side.

He frowned – _Where was she?_

He wanted to finish their conversation. He _needed_ to finish their conversation. He couldn't erase from his mind the image of Sansa and him in the hot springs.

He ran his fingers through his dark curls, feeling his hand wet.

 _Gods_ – he sighed, realizing his current state – _I'm drenched_.

He looked at his torso. His tunic was clutched to his body, revealing his abdominal muscles. His hair was mussed.

He rubbed the water drops from his brow, trying to find the right words to explain his state.

He looked at Margaery and felt his cheeks flush. She was looking at his soaked clothes with a mischievous smile, making him feel like he was naked. His white tunic was now transparent and clung to his skin. He wanted nothing more than to put his cloak around his shoulders and cover his body, but then he realized that he had offered his cloak to Sansa.

"I apologize for my current state" – Jon managed to say, trying to disguise his discomfort.

"There's no need to apologize, Your Grace" – Margaery said – "You were not expecting guests. I should have waited for your reply" – she added.

 _Reply?_ – Jon thought more confused than ever.

Unconsciously, he looked at Lord Slate. The man opened his mouth but Margaery was faster.

"I sent a raven confirming my earlier arrival…" – she said – "so we could discuss all the political matters before the spring feast" – she explained.

"The spring feast" – Jon repeated, remembering Lord Slate yelling his name and waving a missive before Sansa and him disappeared from his view.

The man was trying to inform him about Margaery and he had ignored him.

 _I really am a terrible King_ – he thought.

"I'm sure it will be a beautiful feast. My advisors told me that the entire North was invited" – Margaery spoke – "I'm glad House Tyrell was not forgotten" – she said, flashing her most winning smile – "I ordered a carriage full of roses, so Winterfell can fully embrace the beginning of spring"

"What a wonderful idea, My Lady!" – Lord Slate exclaimed.

 _Is it?_ – Jon said to himself, arching one eyebrow.

Lady Margaery had just arrived and was already acting like she was the Lady of Winterfell.

She was trying to send a message. All people would see the golden roses; all people would think that they had a relationship – the kind of relationship that led to a marriage.

Jon had to give her credit. She was clever. The roses would definitely discourage other women to approach him. She was acting like Winterfell was already her territory; like _he_ was her territory.

He didn't know if it was that realization that made him shiver or his soaked clothes.

Margaery was destroying the entire meaning of the feast.

It was Jon who had the idea of throwing a feast. Every men of his private council looked surprised after hearing his idea but none of them said a word against it.

 _Queen Daenerys's influence_ – they thought – _Maybe his time in the capital made him start to enjoy this kind of things._

They were wrong. Jon hated these things. His time at court only made him hate feasts even more.

Daenerys had to almost drag him out of his chambers when she informed him that she had planned a ball to celebrate his arrival.

A month later, when she told him about the small banquet she was planning he felt relieved, thinking that maybe that meant less music and less time wasted with people he didn't even know. He was wrong. Daenerys's definition of _small_ was something Jon would never get used to. Her _small_ banquet had at least two hundred people.

Jon hated banquets, balls and feasts but Sansa didn't. She loved the music, the people, the dancing … she loved all of that.

Jon could still remember the sparkle in her eyes when Eddard Stark informed them about the feast that he was planning for Robb's nameday – the heir of Winterfell.

All North was invited. Sansa was only nine but everyone could already see how beautiful she was. She danced the entire night.

The spring feast was for her. After all the suffering she had to endure, Sansa deserved to have a night to enjoy herself, to forget the terrible things of the past.

Jon wanted everyone to see how beautiful she was. He wanted to make her happy again. He wanted to make her feel like a Queen.

"Is the Queen coming to the feast, Your Grace?" – Margaery's voice invaded his ears.

It took Jon a moment to realize that Margaery was referring to Dany and not Sansa.

He cleared his throat and tried to organize his thoughts.

"No, I don't think she will" – he answered, remembering that Ellaria Sand and the Sand Snakes were planning to visit Daenerys in the same time period.

 _We need to keep an eye on her and the best way to do that is to keep the Tyrells close_ – he remembered his Aunt's words.

"Would you do me the honor to dine with me, My Lady?" – he forced the words to get out of his mouth – "I'm sure Sansa would enjoy your company"

"I would love to!" – Margaery immediately said.

Jon faked a smile and ordered some servants to prepare chambers for the new visitors. He kissed Margaery's hand again and walked towards the castle.

* * *

Sansa didn't know how long she was in the tub, looking at the ceiling, trying to erase Jon's face from her mind.

The water was already cold but Sansa hardly felt it.

She brought her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, resting her chin on her knees.

She didn't want to leave her chambers and face Jon. She didn't want to leave her chambers and face Jon _and_ Margaery.

She didn't want to see them together.

Sansa sighed.

She didn't know she would be able to smile and pretend to be pleased once Jon tells her about his happy future with Margaery Tyrell (or Margaery Targaryen).

She knew that she wouldn't be able to spend the rest of her life watching Jon love someone else. Winterfell would no longer be her home, it would be a dark place again, full of dark memories and ghosts of what could had been. She wouldn't be able to live like that.

She sank into the tub and disappeared under water. She remained like that until she felt her lungs pleading for air.

When she came up from the water she heard her chamber's door creaking. She rubbed her eyes but before she could adjust her eyes to the surroundings a familiar face made her want to sink into the tub again.

"Sansa! My dearest friend! I've missed you!" – Margaery exclaimed, kneeling beside the tub and pressing two kisses to either of her cheeks.

"Margaery, I …" – Sansa tried to say, feeling her cheeks turning red. She was completely naked and her hair was plastered down with water.

"I've missed you so much! It has been so long since we've seen each other" – Margaery said.

"Too long" – Sansa said, forcing a smile – "I didn't know you were planning to visit Winterfell" – she added, pretending to be surprised by her presence and trying not to think at the way Margaery looked at Jon in the courtyard.

"I came for the feast" – Margaery explained, smiling from ear to ear.

"The feast?" – Sansa asked, this time genuinely surprised. _What was she talking about?_

"The spring feast" – Margaery said – "All the Northern Houses were invited. Did you not know about this?"

"No" – Sansa mumbled – "Jon must have forgotten to tell me" – she added.

"Perhaps he wanted it to be a surprise" – Margaery suggested.

"Perhaps…" – Sansa softly said.

"Do not worry. You still have a month to find the perfect gown" – Margaery said, smiling at her.

"A month ..." – Sansa repeated. She looked at her friend confused – "You came early"

"I missed my old friend" – the Lady of Highgarden said, getting up from the ground and smoothing out her skirts – "After my Grandmother and father passed away Highgarden became a dark place to live" – she explained – "Loras is now the Lord of Highgarden and barely has time to keep me company"

Despite Margaery's speech Sansa was not moved by her words. She knew better than to believe in her fake words.

"I'm sorry for your loss" – she said – "Lady Olenna was always kind to me. I'm sorry the war took her away from you. I'm sure she's in a better place now" – she added.

The Tyrells had been an important help during Daenerys's claim to the Iron Throne.

Cersei had tried to kill them by destroying the Great Sept of Baelor but Margaery quickly understood her plan. They managed to escape from her claws and meet with Ellaria Sand in Dorn.

Consumed by sadness Tommen committed suicide, allowing Cersei to take the throne.

After that the Tyrells declared their support to House Targaryen and Margaery had to renounce her claim to the Iron Throne.

"The Lannisters are finally gone" – Sansa continued to say – "At least the bad ones" – Tyrion was still alive. He proved to be a loyal friend. He was now Hand of the Queen.

"I heard the Queen has annulled your marriage" – Margaery said.

"She did" – Sansa nodded. She wished her history with Ramsay could be as easily erased, unfortunately the man still met her in her worse nightmares – "I'm free, unwed, and home again"

"Until when?" – Margaery asked with a mischievous smile.

 _And here we go. Time to play the game of thrones._

"I could ask you the same question, old friend" – Sansa said with a matching smile.

Margaery remained in silence for a few seconds. She sat on the lip of the tub. Her eyes focused on her own fingers touching the cold water.

"Have you ever been in love?" – she finally spoke. Unconsciously, Sansa ran a hand through her hair – "I've never been in love" – Margaery said, like she was talking to herself – "And I don't think I was ever loved. My first husband preferred the company of my brother than mine. My second husband was a man who couldn't love and my third husband … well, I don't think Tommen was old enough to really know what love was"

"That's why you're here?" – Sansa asked. Her mouth felt dry and her voice was barely a whisper.

"I don't believe in songs anymore, Sansa" – Margaery said, looking at her – "I think I never did" – she laughed mirthlessly – "I've always thought that love was irrelevant to people like us" – she added – "Do you think I could have a change of heart?"

 _Requires a heart_ – Sansa thought to herself.

"Any man would be happy to have you as a wife" – she forced the words to get out of her mouth.

"Do you think your brother would?" – Margaery asked and Sansa tried to remain with a neutral face, feeling her heart beating against her chest.

"He's not my brother" – she tried to correct her but the Maid of Highgarden ignored her.

"How is he like?" – Margaery insisted.

 _Beautiful, handsome, gallant, fearless, perfect. The best swordsman of the Seven Kingdoms. The best man I've ever met. The man I lo_ –Sansa shook her head, trying to erase her thoughts.

She needed to find the right words to describe him.

"Jon is Jon" – Sansa mumbled. She noticed the confuse look on Margaery's face and spoke again – "He's brave and gentle and strong" – she unconsciously repeated her father's words: _When you're older, I'll make you a match with someone who is worthy of you. Someone who is brave and gentle and strong –_ "He's a great king even if he says otherwise" – she added.

"I married three kings and none of them was a great king nor as handsome as your brother" – Margaery said. Sansa was about to correct her last word but Lady Tyrell interrupted her – "I look forward for the spring feast so I can get the chance to dance with him"

"Jon hates dancing" – Sansa immediately said.

"Only because he didn't find the right partner yet" – Margaery simply said – "Of all the Southern Houses, House Tyrell was the only one invited … and it's called the _spring_ feast. Do you think that's a sign?" – she continued to say and Sansa felt her heart sink.

 _Spring_ feast, not winter feast. The Tyrell sigil was a golden rose on a pale green field – the perfect image of spring.

Sansa wanted to disappear as she realized what her friend was trying to say. The feast was for Margaery. Jon was planning a feast for Margaery.

"I would love to be your sister. Wouldn't that be wonderful?" – Margaery continued to say and Sansa could feel an actual physical pain in her chest as her words echoed in her mind.

"Wonderful" – she repeated, starting to feel dizzy.

"I'm so happy to be here!" – Margaery exclaimed, pressing a kiss on her cheek, before making her away towards the door – "I'll see you at dinner, _sister_ " – she winked, opening the door.

As soon as Margaery walked out of the room Sansa sank into the tub, hoping the cold water would freeze her heart and erase the tears that were starting to appear in her eyes.

* * *

Jon managed to smile warmly at Margaery when the Maid of Highgarden leaned forward and touched his hand. He was sat at the head of the table, Margaery to his right while Sansa sat at the other end of the table, directly across from him.

Clad in a green velvet dress Margaery Tyrell looked beautiful. The neckline of her gown was wide and the tops of her breasts were visible. When she laughed and tossed her head back the emerald necklace on her neck glowed.

Jon studied Sansa from the corner of his eye. She was quiet, uncharacteristically quiet.

He tried not to look at his cousin too much during dinner but every time his eyes landed on her figure, her eyes were always stuck on her plate.

She vaguely followed their conversations, only contributing when asked.

She was wearing a white and silver gown. It was a simple dress, simpler than Margaery's. Her auburn hair was loose, falling down in red waves over her shoulders and down her back. Only a few strands of hair were held in place with the hairpin Jon had offered her.

Jon was watching Sansa picking at her vegetables when Margaery's voice invaded his ears.

"Would you like to see Highgarden, Your Grace?" – she asked, smiling at him.

"I … Yes, I suppose I would" – he managed to say. A servant refilling Sansa's cup caught his attention – "And please, call me Jon" – he added, watching Sansa drink her wine.

Margaery's eyes flashed and her smile became even bigger. She was about to say Jon's name when Sansa pushed back her chair before standing up.

Jon looked at Sansa with concern in his eyes. He opened his mouth but Sansa was faster.

"A sudden headache" – she lied, trying to sound convincing, feeling her knees trembling – "If you'll excuse me, _Jon_ " – she added, already backing out of the room, not waiting for Jon's response.

As she hurried down the corridor she felt like she couldn't get enough air. It was like the walls of the castle were closing in on her. She thought she would be capable of seeing Margaery play her game – of seeing Margaery in Jon's presence – but she quickly realized she couldn't.

It was too painful. Margaery's loudly laugh was like a knife plunged into her chest. Jon's charming smiles were like dog bites. Every time Margaery touched Jon's hand she had to clutch her fork, bit her lower lip and try to remain with a neutral face when all she wanted to do was to throw the bloody fork at the Maid of Highgarden.

 _Arya would be so proud_ – she thought as a sob raked her whole body.

She was alone again. She had found Jon only to lose him when she needed – _wanted_ – him the most.

As Sansa tried to control her breathing she realized where she'd ran to – the Glass Garden.

She sat on a stone bench and managed to shove the awful images of the dinner out of her head. The faint torches didn't penetrate very far into the dark greenhouse but Sansa didn't need the light. She wanted to be alone and soak in her misery.

Suddenly she felt something warm and soft touching her left hand and froze. Ghost sniffed her hand and Sansa released the air she didn't know it was trapped in her lungs. She caressed his fur.

"I'm glad you don't like her" – she murmured, remembering how Ghost escaped from Jon's solar as soon as Margaery appeared. Sansa wished she could have done the same.

Ghost licked her hand, managing to steal a small smile from Sansa.

* * *

A sigh of relief escaped from Jon's lips when he saw the lone figure sitting on the stone bench. When he didn't find her in her chambers he started to fear the worst.

He hesitated as he approached her, suddenly unsure. Sansa's words started to echo in his head.

 _I feel too guilty_

 _Guilty for what?_ – he heard his own voice in his mind. He needed to know her answer.

When Sansa left his chambers he wanted nothing more than to follow her but then he remembered that Margaery was still in the room and forced his body to remain on the chair.

Sansa felt his presence and turned around. When her eyes found his she immediately looked away and focused her attention on Ghost.

Jon sat down in the opposite corner of the stone bench.

"How are you feeling?" – Jon's voice broke the silence – "I could ask for Maester –"

"I'm fine" – Sansa interrupted him – "I just needed some fresh air" – she explained.

"I was worried about you" – Jon said softly – "You were uncharacteristically quiet during dinner"

 _I thought you were too busy flirting with Margaery to notice_ – Sansa said to herself.

"I didn't have anything to say" – the Lady of Winterfell simply said.

"Actually I think you do" – Jon said, meeting her blue eyes – "We never finished our conversation. Lord Slate interrupted you when you were about to speak" – he added, trying to disguise the hope in his voice.

"It's not important" – _not anymore_ – Sansa added to herself.

"Let me be the judge of that" – Jon insisted. His eyes never leaving hers.

"I just …" – she bit her lower lip and dropped her gaze. _Think, think, think_ – "I guess I never forgave myself for the way I treated you when we were children and you're always so kind to me and you have spent every spare minute with me when you could be spending your time with other people" – she babbled, not wanting to tell Jon the real reason she avoided him. The truth wouldn't change anything – "And I, I, I feel guilty for that. I don't want to be a burden"

"You could never be a burden, Sansa" – Jon said, gently brushing Sansa's hair back over her shoulder – "I like to spend time with you" – he added when all he wanted to say was: _There's no one else I would want to spend my time with._

She shivered lightly and Jon immediately removed his hand from her hair.

"You're the King, Jon" – Sansa said – "It's not your job to keep me company. I shouldn't steal your time"

"You can't steal something that's been given to you" – Jon said – "And even if you could…" – he paused – "We both know that you are a terrible thief, so…" – he jested, enjoying the way Sansa immediately opened her mouth, ready to protest.

"Are you mocking me, Your Grace?" – she exclaimed, faking a shocked face.

"I wouldn't dare, My Lady" – he stated, smiling at her – "Just stating facts" – he jested again.

He didn't smile too much but when he did he looked perfect, Sansa realized as her eyes focused on Jon's lips. She could stare at him forever. She _wished_ she could stare at him forever.

Sansa felt Jon's eyes on her and her mind came back to reality. She cleared her throat, feeling her cheeks flush.

"I already miss the snow" – she said, looking at the ground.

"Spring is coming" – Jon said innocently, without realizing the double meaning of his words.

Sansa nodded slowly, struggling to calm the storm of emotions raging within her as Jon's words echoed in her mind.

 _Spring is coming_. She could feel the thorns of the Tyrell roses pricking her skin.

Sansa pulled her legs up to her chest and rested her chin on top of her knees, trying to disguise her discomfort.

"Why didn't you tell me about the feast?" – she asked. Her tone lifeless.

"I've wanted to tell you but I've barely seen you these past days" – Jon explained, making Sansa's stomach twist into a knot.

 _Because I've been busy avoiding you_ – she thought, regretting her actions.

"I'm sure Margaery will love it" – Sansa said, quickly blinking away the pinpricks of tears welling up in her eyes – "She was very excited to meet you. She even told me she wishes to dance with you. I think you made a good first impression" – she added, forcing a smile – "You do not need to worry. She will marry you, even if the feast is a disaster" – she made herself say, somehow managing to sound as though her heart wasn't breaking.

"Sansa …" – Jon tried to say but Sansa continued to talk.

"Marrying her is a good way to ensure peace" – she said, trying to hide the tremor in her voice – "And she already knows how the court works. She's smart and rich and beautiful" – she studied the man sitting across from her. She was a practiced liar. There was no way Jon would know that her heart was breaking into tiny little pieces – "What could you possibly want more?" – she added softly, allowing herself to touch Jon's cheek before standing up from the bench.

Her bottom lip started to tremble and only sheer force of will made her fight back the tears. She could feel Ghost at her side as she made her way towards the entrance of the Glass Garden, leaving a speechless Jon behind.

* * *

 **Poor Sansa. I'm putting her through too much.**

 **So, Margaery didn't die. I could have chosen another character to play her role but no one is better than Margaery at being Margaery, so …**

 **Next chapter will be interesting and a new character is going to appear (well, it's not exactly a new character since I already mentioned her/him in chapter 2, hahaha).**

 **Please review! I love to read what you think!**

 **Oh, I made a new Jon/Sansa video, if you want to see it just check my youtube channel (mentioned on my profile) or follow this link: watch?v=8N3nNcH4wt8**


	5. Special Guests

_Oh what we could be if we stopped carrying the remains of who we were_ ― Tyler Knott Gregson

* * *

A fortnight later and the Northern lords started showing up at Winterfell's gates. Sansa mentally thanked them for their arrival.

New guests meant new distractions and Sansa desperately needed new distractions.

She had tried her very best to lose herself in the work. Planning a great feast had always been one of her dreams but she quickly realized that the spring feast would be nothing but a nightmare.

Margaery's constant interferences only increased her desire to lock herself in her chambers and forget about the feast. The worst part was that when Margaery was not around, Sansa found herself wrapped in a thick web of jealousy, because if the Maid of Highgarden was not by her side, she was certainly by Jon's side.

Sansa Stark was jealous.

 _Jealousy_ – an unexpected and unwelcome feeling.

She was not used to experience this type of feeling. She never felt insecure about herself and her looks. She was used to being called beautiful. She had grown up hearing compliments about her good manners and her beautiful embroideries. She was the perfect lady.

She was used to being the one who made other jealous, not the other way around … but now, now she was jealous of Margaery Tyrell and the way her eyes, her _hands_ , lingered on Jon.

She couldn't help but feel jealous.

Winter was being replaced by spring and Sansa Stark was being replaced by Margaery Tyrell.

She didn't feel like the Lady of Winterfell anymore. She felt like a little girl alone in a strange house. She felt alone.

She tried to distract herself instructing on table arrangements and dinner courses but not even that had been enough to stop the jealous thoughts from invading her mind and heart.

Lyanna Mormont's arrival was like a breath of fresh air. It felt good to talk with someone so different from Margaery. Lady Mormont was always honest. She didn't hide her thoughts with pretty words. Her responses were remarkably candid. The girl reminded her of Arya – her bravery, her stubbornness, her boldness, her candor.

For the first time, since Margaery's arrival, the Great Hall felt a little less cold. It felt cozier.

The Mormont men talked enthusiastically, presenting Jon with toasts. Shouts and laughter echoed through the Great Hall. Lords and Knights from House Tyrell and House Glover were also present.

Sansa caught herself enjoying dinner. For the first time in weeks she managed to smile and eat all the food on her plate.

She was sat across from Jon, at the head of the long table. Lyanna Mormont was sat to her right and Ser Davos sat to her left. At least ten chairs separated Sansa from Jon and she was glad for it.

Sansa didn't know if she would be able to spend another endless dinner in Jon's solar with Margaery as guest of honor.

She only happened to see Jon at dinner, where she remained in silence or spoke her mind on accident. He didn't usually seek her out during the day but when he did, she quickly found an excuse to avoid him.

* * *

Despite the noise in the room, Sansa's laugh invaded Jon's ears. He would know that sound anywhere. He missed that sound. It had been weeks since he last heard her laugh.

She was different – sadder, colder.

Their last dinner have proved that.

 _They were in his solar, waiting for Margaery in utter silence. Jon watched Sansa drink a cup of wine and broke the silence._

" _You haven't been yourself since the Tyrells arrived" – he said, watching Sansa finishing her drink._

 _She tried to hide her frown behind her wine but not even that was enough to stop her from speaking her mind._

" _You've not spent time with me since she arrived how would you know if I've been myself?" – she blurted, putting her cup down._

 _He was taken aback by her words, by the intensity with which she spoke them. She was the one who was always busy. She was the one who suggested that he should spend time with other people. She was the one who told him that marrying Margaery was for the best … and now she was acting like she was cross with him. She almost sounded like she was … jealous?_

 _Jon realized that Sansa chose to say: "since she arrived", instead of "since they arrived". Jon had mentioned the Tyrell party but Sansa had only referred to Margaery. Why?_

 _Jon was about to speak when Margaery joined them in the solar, preventing the words from leaving his lips. Sansa picked up her wine and drained her cup._

Sansa's laugh warmed his heart.

Her sweet voice invaded his ears:

 _What could you possibly want more?_

He looked at Margaery Tyrell. She was sat to his right.

Jon didn't want Margaery Tyrell. He never did and he never would.

 _What could you possibly want more?_ – Sansa's words kept following him.

He looked at the other end of the table. Sansa was sat directly across from him.

 _You_ – he should have told her a fortnight ago in the Glass Garden – _I want you, only you._

Even if she didn't feel the same at least she would know the truth – his deepest secret; at least he wouldn't have to pretend anymore; at least the weight in his chest would cease to exist … but he didn't say the words and now he could feel the distance between them increasing.

* * *

It was already late when Jon ascended the steps that led to a long corridor. He was tired but as King he couldn't leave the Great Hall before his guests, so he waited until Lord Glover decided to finish his drink and that it was time for bed.

As he walked through the corridor he looked at the faint torches on the walls and took a moment to relax in the peaceful silence that surrounded him. The entire castle was already asleep.

He saw the streaks of light coming from the far end of the corridor. His feet started walking again and Jon found himself in front of Sansa's chambers.

He approached the half opened door and studied it for a long time. No sound came from the room. Nothing. Only silence surrounded him.

Jon was suddenly gripped by an unreasoning fear. The door was half opened, there was light coming from the room and yet he couldn't hear any sound.

If Sansa was still awake why couldn't he hear any sound? And if Sansa was asleep shouldn't the door be closed?

"Sansa?" – Jon broke the silence, leaning against the door, waiting for a response.

His call remained unanswered.

"It's me, Jon" – he tried again. He could feel the worry and panic growing in his body – "Is everything alright?"

Jon waited for a response but no one spoke. He looked at the door for a moment before finally pushing it open and stepping inside.

He walked through the foyer into the great room. White curtains hung between columns, separating the other rooms from the one he stood in.

Before he could pass through the curtains and see the bedchamber, his eyes laid upon the table in the corner of the room, placed near a window.

Sansa was sat on one of the chairs; her head rested on the table. Jon could also see a cyvasse board next to his cousin.

Despite the strands of hair that covered some of her face, Jon could see that her eyes were closed. The dancing light from the fireplace accentuated the red color of her hair and Jon caught himself contemplating her appearance.

She looked peaceful, younger … beautiful.

Jon sat on the chair near the fireplace and remained in silence, watching Sansa sleep. He could stare at her forever.

He didn't know how much time have actually passed when a familiar voice broke the peaceful silence.

"Your Grace" – Lyanna Mormont said, making Jon turn his head, startled by the sound.

"Lady Mormont" – he managed to say, rising from the chair.

The small girl was carrying a tray full of lemon cakes. Before Jon could explain himself the girl spoke.

"I was only away for a quarter of a candlemark" – Lyanna said, sitting down on the furs near the fireplace, formalities forgotten as she took a bite of cake before speaking – "I was afraid this would happen" – she explained, swallowing the lemon cake. Her lips curved up in a satisfied smile – "She kept yawning but refused to end the game" – she added – "Can I offer you some lemon cakes, Jon?"

Jon smiled and sat down on the chair. He looked down at the girl. Lyanna Mormont was one of the few people that called him by his name when they were not in public.

"Thank you, but Sansa is the one who loves lemon cakes, I prefer honey fingers" – Jon said.

Dany loved honey fingers, as well. Maybe it was a Targaryen thing.

"Are the rumors true?" – she asked. Jon looked at her confused, saying without words that he was not following – "Are you going to marry Lady Tyrell?" – she explained. Her big brown eyes never leaving Jon's grey ones.

Jon sighed.

"It's the right thing to do" – he said softly, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

"The right thing to do …" – Lyanna repeated Jon's words – "What about happiness, companionship, love?" – she countered – "Are you ready to give up from all of that?"

"Wouldn't be the first" – he mumbled. Lyanna pursed her lips disapprovingly – "It would be for the good of the Realm. It will ensure peace, Lyanna" – Jon explained, not knowing if he was trying to convince his friend or himself.

She scoffed and for a moment Jon could actually see Arya in front of him, doing the exact same thing.

"You will never be happy and if there's one thing I learned from my History lessons is that when the King is happy so is Westeros, so I think you should reconsider …" – Lyanna said, sounding like the competent and intelligent leader Jon knew. Sometimes he had to remind himself that she was only a twelve-year-old girl – "There are other ways to ensure peace" – she insisted – "You can be happy and so can she" – she added softly, looking at Sansa.

"It's not that simple" – Jon blurted. It took him a moment to realize what he had just said; what he had admitted.

He felt his heart pounding against his chest as his eyes met Lyanna's.

She knew. _How did she know?_

The girl smiled and Jon felt his cheeks flush.

He opened his mouth but no words came out of it.

"You have the support of the Northern Houses. You know we would go to war with you" – she started to explain, standing up from the floor – "Queen Daenerys has dragons, armies and allies. The Tyrells don't stand a chance" – she added – "You don't have to marry Margaery Tyrell to ensure peace. She doesn't has the upper hand, you do"

Unconsciously, he looked at Sansa. His beautiful cousin was sound asleep.

 _Could he really have her? Could he really be happy … with her?_

He knew he had feelings for her. It seemed useless to deny it, at that point, but could he call those feelings love? The kind of love that makes men start wars? The kind of love that made Lyanna Stark run away with Rhaegar Targaryen?

Lyanna smiled at him like she was hearing his thoughts.

"My mother used to tell me that you know you love someone when you can spend the entire night, sitting by the fire, watching them sleep" – she said, winking at Jon before leaving the room.

As soon as Lyanna closed the door, silence invaded the room. Her words started to echo in Jon's mind and he couldn't stop looking at Sansa.

After a few minutes he rose from the chair and approached her. He touched her face carefully, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

He lifted her body from the chair, trying not to wake her. He almost froze when he heard her mumbling something that he couldn't quite understand as he carried her bridal style. He put her in her bed and kissed her forehead.

 _You know you love someone when you can spend the entire night, sitting by the fire, watching them sleep._

Jon only left her chambers when the first rays of the warm morning sun streamed through the window.

* * *

 **The next morning**

" _Will you teach me more tomorrow, Jon?"_

" _Of course"_

"Of course _not_!" – Sansa mumbled, taking her frustration out on a straw-filled dummy.

After breakfast she went to the stables. Lyanna was occupied. She was the Lady of Bear Island which meant she was invited to attend Jon's council meeting.

Sansa needed to distract herself, but more importantly she needed to avoid Margaery. She didn't know if she would be able to hear her complimenting Jon and stay with a neutral face. She was tired of pretending.

Her right fist hit the straw dummy. She could hear the horses neighing.

A fortnight ago Jon told her that he would teach her how to defend herself but Margaery's arrival changed everything, so here she was, alone, without a teacher.

She was coated with sweat and exhausted but she didn't stop hitting her target.

She was wearing an old dress. The sleeves were faded and the hem hit her shins rather than brushing the floor. Her feet were bare and her hair was pulled in a messy knot secured by a ponytail holder on the top of her head.

One of her favorite gowns was upon a sack of grain. She was still the Lady of Winterfell and she needed to look like it. The straw dummy didn't care about her looks but the rest of Winterfell did, so she needed to look like a lady as soon as she stepped out of the stables.

She didn't remember much about last night. She didn't remember finishing the cyvasse game or getting into bed. She blamed the wine she drank at dinner. The only thing she remembered was her dream about Jon.

She shook her head, trying to erase that thought from her mind.

Her body was streaked with sweat and dirt.

"Three quick jabs to the stomach, one to the throat" – she repeated Jon's words – "And he'll go right to his knees"

She hit the straw dummy harder, but the dummy didn't move.

Sansa sighed and mopped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.

She leaned heavily against the wooden door and closed her eyes, trying to control her breath.

After a few seconds she heard voices. Sansa pressed her forehead against the wood. There were cracks between the boards and she tried to look through one of them. She immediately saw Margaery and Jon.

"Sansa never talked about you" – Margaery said, twisting her hair around her finger.

"We've never been close" – Jon explained after a few seconds – "It's different now, though" – he added and Sansa felt her heart beat against her chest.

"It's different now" – Sansa murmured, looking at Jon.

"Loras and I have always been close but every sibling relationship is different, I suppose" – Margaery continued to say.

"We're not siblings" – Jon quickly said – "Sansa is not my sister"

"Yes, I know" – Margaery said and Sansa frowned as soon as she saw her annoying smile – "But you still see her as if she was, don't you?" – she asked.

Sansa bit her lower lip and turned her attention back to Jon. He remained in silence, looking at Margaery.

"Don't say yes" – Sansa whispered – "Don't say yes, please"

 _Why doesn't he say anything?_ – she yelled in her mind – _Why doesn't he say no?_

"Yes" – Jon said an eternity later.

The world slowed down around Sansa. Jon's response was like a punch in her stomach, hitting her so hard she thought she would crumble.

She shut her eyes before turning around and pressing her back against the door. She put her hand over her chest.

 _Yes_ – the word started to echo in her head.

She clenched her fists, walked towards the straw dummy and hit it harder, feeling the sweat dripping down her body.

She wanted to scream but she knew she couldn't, not without blowing her cover.

She hit the dummy again when all she wanted to do was to hit Margaery's face … or Jon's.

The pain in her hands was nothing compared to the pain in her heart.

After a few moments she let herself fall heavily to the ground as tears started to form in her eyes.

 _He should have said no. Why couldn't he say no? Why? Was that so much to ask?_

Sansa took a deep breath, trying to calm herself and stop the sobs. She wiped away the tears and let out a heavy breath.

She got up from the ground and took off the dirty gown. She grabbed the one it was upon the sack of grain and dressed herself.

At her third attempt of getting her braid right a disturbed thought invaded her mind.

 _You look so much like Catelyn_ – her aunt Lysa had once said.

Sansa always loved her Tully hair. She always loved the way people compared her to her mother. Catelyn Stark had been a perfect lady. Sansa always wanted to be exactly like her … until now. Now she wanted to look like a Stark. She wanted to have dark hair and grey eyes. She wanted to look different. If she looked different maybe Jon would look at her differently.

She was the spitting image of the woman who hated him. Of course he would never feel for her what she felt for him. How could he? It was impossible.

That realization made her want to tear off Margaery's brown hair.

Sansa finished her braid and got out of the stables.

She was about to enter in the castle when a voice caught her attention.

"Lady Sansa!"

She turned her body and saw a familiar face walking towards her.

"Lord Lake" – Sansa smiled, offering her hand.

He took her hand and kissed it.

"We had a deal, My Lady" – the blonde man said teasingly, making Sansa blush.

"Did we?" – she asked, narrowing her eyes, enjoying the way his lips curved up in a smile – "It's good to see you again, _Bash_ " – she said, emphasizing the last word.

Sebastian Lake was a _very_ good looking man. He didn't look like a Northman. He looked like the golden-haired knights Sansa always dreamt about. He had green eyes and a charming laugh. She had met him almost a year ago while Jon was in King's Landing.

Before her mind could register what he was doing, he stepped forward and touched her braid.

She watched as yellow stems floated in the air.

"You had little pieces of straw in your hair" – Sebastian explained, meeting Sansa's eyes.

"Did you came for the spring feast?" – she asked, running her hands through her hair.

"Aye. I couldn't miss the chance to dance with the fairest woman in all the North" – he said, grabbing her hand.

He lifted the arm that held her hand, spinning her in a quick circle. Sansa was unable to stop the laugh that escaped from her lips.

She was so wrapped up in Sebastian Lake that she didn't hear the sound of footsteps approaching.

* * *

 **I'm evil, I know!**

 _ **(You know you love someone when you can spend the entire night, sitting by the fire, watching them sleep**_ **– I got inspired by** _ **Dawson's Creek.)**_


	6. Jealousy

**I'm so sorry for the waiting! I couldn't finish this chapter and I'm still not one hundred percent happy with it but I decided to post it anyway.**

 **I hope you like!**

* * *

 _If equal affection cannot be, let the more loving one be me_ — W. H. Auden

* * *

 _I couldn't miss the chance to dance with the fairest woman in all the North._

The man's words hung heavy around Jon, knocking the air from his lungs. He watched the man grabbing Sansa's hand and spinning her around. His hands clenched into fists and his eyes widened in rage.

He noticed one of the man's hand settling lower than appropriate on her back, and a possessive feeling invaded his body. His feet started moving and a moment later he was right behind Sansa.

The man's smile disappeared from his face as soon as his eyes met Jon's.

"Your Grace" – he said, immediately taking a step back and releasing Sansa from his grasp.

Jon felt Sansa's eyes on him but refused to look back.

"I don't think we've met before" – Jon said. His voice deep and commanding. It was a king's voice.

He rested his hand on Sansa's slender waist. She could feel his palm burning a hole through the thick material of her gown. The hand he settled at her waist felt oddly possessive.

Their bodies were so close that she could feel the heat emanating from his skin.

"Sebastian Lake, Your Grace" – the man quickly said, bowing his head – "It's a pleasure to finally meet you. I've heard many great things about you"

He tried to remain with a neutral face after hearing the man's name. _Sebastian Lake_.

He remembered that name. He remembered reading that name on one of his Aunt's letters. He remembered ripping the missive after reading that he was seeking for Sansa's hand in marriage. He remembered writing to his Aunt, declining the offer.

He had never seen the man before but he always imagined him as an old fat man with a long beard and poor manners. Sebastian Lake was anything but that. He looked like a knight from Old Nan's stories. The kind of knight Sansa always talked about when she was a little girl.

He didn't know anything about this Lord Lake but he seemed like the kind of man who would bring Sansa flowers and say nice things to her. He seemed like the kind of man who was good with words. The kind of man who would praise her beautiful gowns and hairstyles.

He didn't know anything about this Lord Lake but he already hated the man.

Suddenly he felt his stomach twist and questions stormed his mind.

 _How did they know each other? When did they meet? How did they meet? How well did they know each other? Were they close? Were they friends? Were they lovers?_

Jon cleared his throat.

"I didn't know you two knew each other" – he asked blankly.

"We've met while you were in King's Landing" – Sansa said, making him look at her.

She tried to ignore the protective and innocently possessive way his arm molded around her waist and the way his hand cradled her hip. She liked the way he touched her. It was almost hypnotic.

"Sebastian is here for the spring feast" – she added.

Jon frowned. _Sebastian? They already address each other by first names?_

He tried to compose himself.

"Have you finished your gown?" – he asked nonsensically.

Sansa narrowed her eyes, looking at him suspiciously.

"Not yet" – she said – "Why do you ask?"

The expression on Sansa's face was very solemn.

"No reason" – Jon quickly said – "Lady Mormont told me about your cyvasse game. How many times did you win?"

Sansa had learned the game from Jon. He had taught her how to play during the long nights after they defeated Bolton.

The last time they played was the day before Jon left for King's Landing. Sansa used to win most of the times, but Jon didn't seem to mind. He enjoyed letting her win.

"I … I don't know … I don't remember" – Sansa said, pressing her hands to her temples and closing her eyes – "I don't even remember getting into bed" – she added.

When she opened her eyes again she immediately felt her heart beating against her chest. Jon's eyes were locked on hers. He looked as if there were something he wanted to say to her.

"I'd like to speak with you in private, Your Grace" – Lord Lake interrupted their moment. Sansa looked away from Jon; the connection broke with a snap – "There are some matters I'd want to discuss with you" – he added.

It took Jon a long moment to look away from Sansa.

He forced a smile. He already knew what kind of matters the man wanted to discuss with him.

"Very well" – he said, releasing Sansa from his grasp – "We can talk in my solar"

Lord Lake took Sansa's hand and kissed it. Jon did his best to swallow his jealousy back down.

 _I couldn't miss the chance to dance with the fairest woman in all the North_ – Lord Lake's voice echoed in his head.

He was wrong.

Sansa was not the fairest woman in all the North. Sansa was the fairest woman in all the Seven Kingdoms.

* * *

Jon frowned as Sansa laughed at something Lord Lake said.

His hands clenched under the table and creaked under the pressure when he saw the way Sebastian Lake's lips curved up into a smile. He looked pleased with himself.

 _Of course he looks pleased with himself_ – Jon thought – _How could he not be pleased after hearing her beautiful laugh._

He forced himself to take a bite of the meal in front of him. It tasted like mud in his mouth but he swallowed it.

Jon tried not to look at his cousin during dinner but the truth was that he couldn't take his eyes off of her.

Sansa wrinkled her nose. Jon was too far away from her to see the small freckles across her nose but he knew they were there. Twelve freckles.

He wondered if Lord Lake knew she had exactly twelve freckles across her nose. Probably not, since he was not looking at her nose. He was looking at her lips.

Jon sipped from his mug of ale. He wanted to knock the smirk off of Sebastian Lake's face.

He watched the man touching her hand and this time he gave in and set his fork down.

He knew that if he left early his absence would be seen as an insult to their guests but he didn't care. He was jealous. He needed to get out of the room before he could do something foolish; before he could throw his fork against Lord Lake's head.

He rose from his chair, quickly hurrying from the Great Hall, making his way towards his chambers.

Once the door was closed, Jon rested his head against the wood and shut his eyes, remembering his conversation with Lord Lake.

" _I sent a letter to Queen Daenerys seeking for Lady Sansa's hand in marriage"_

" _And the answer was not what you expected" – Jon said as he tried to conceal his smile by drinking from the cup of wine._

 _His Aunt had sent him a raven with Lord Lake's proposal. Jon had replied to Dany, declining the offer with a vague excuse, expecting Daenerys to do the same. If the Queen or King didn't authorize Sebastian Lake's proposal, then there could be no wedding._

 _Jon was glad Dany declined his offer. He didn't want to have to talk with Sansa about marriage prospects; he didn't know if he could have that kind of conversation with her without breaking apart._

 _The Queen had declined Lord Lake's offers and Jon would not question her decision._

" _She didn't give me an answer, Your Grace" – Sebastian Lake interrupted his thoughts – "She said I should present my proposal to you, since you're Lady Sansa's oldest living relative"_

 _Jon's eyes widened and he almost spat out the wine in his mouth._

 _Seven Hells, Dany! – he said to himself – What the bloody hell were you thinking?_

 _His gut twisted. He needed to do something. He couldn't lose her, not now that he was about to end all the rumors about Margaery and him. He needed to find a solution._

 _He cleared his throat and forced his face to remain neutral._

" _Sansa never expressed any interest in re-marrying" – Jon finally spoke._

" _But if she did… if she changed her mind…" – Lord Lake immediately said – "Would I have your support?" – he asked – "Your cousin is a beautiful woman. I'm sure many suitors will attend the spring feast" – he remained in silence for a moment – "I could make her happy"_

 _Jon started to feel dizzy as his words echoed in his mind, showing him pictures of the future, a future where Sansa and Sebastian Lake were happy, married, with children._

 _He shook his head. He wanted Sansa to be happy. He truly wanted that, but he also wanted to share that happiness with her. He didn't want to lose her._

 _He didn't want her to leave Winterfell, but if she married Lord Lake she would have to leave. She would no longer be the Lady of Winterfell, she would be Lady Lake. She would leave this castle and travel north-east. She would live in a castle near Long Lake – the largest lake in the North._

 _He couldn't let that happen but at the same time he couldn't take that choice away from her. Sansa never told him that she wanted to re-marry. She loved Winterfell. She didn't need to marry Lord Lake to be happy._ _She was already happy, right?_

" _You might propose it, but I don't speak on Sansa's behalf" – Jon forced the words to get out of his mouth – "The decision is hers, not mine"_

He walked over to the bed and sat down.

He should have declined Sebastian Lake's offer. Sansa looked absolutely pleased with his company. It was only a matter of time for her to leave Winterfell. She would say yes and she would leave.

The spring feast was turning out to be a complete disaster. Lord Lake would not let the opportunity escape him. He would use the feast to propose marriage, like in the songs Sansa always loved.

Jon fell back against the pillows on the bed and sighed loudly. He closed his eyes and tried to enjoy the softness of his bed but there were a million thoughts rushing through his mind.

He took a deep breath.

 _She's not going to say yes. She doesn't want to leave Winterfell. She's happy here. Winterfell is her home. She's not going to say yes_ – he said to himself, trying to calm down.

His breathing had almost returned to normal when the memory of a familiar voice stole his breath again.

 _You know nothing, Jon Snow._

* * *

Sansa was in her solar, breaking her fast with Margaery. The Maid of Highgarden had insisted on spending some quiet time with her, so they could talk about their time at court, their gowns for the spring feast, Jon…

Sansa wished they could skip the last subject, but Margaery had other plans.

"Do you think he's going to announce our betrothal at the feast?" – the Lady of Highgarden asked, after drinking some of her milk.

"I don't know" – Sansa said, dropping the bread she had in the palm of her hand. The sight of the food was starting to make her fell ill.

"He still didn't talk about it, though" – Margaery continued to say, looking at the boiled eggs – "He's so different from most people" – she added – "Most men I know enjoy public victories and compliments but Jon …" – Sansa clenched her jaw when Margaery mentioned Jon's name – "I don't think he particularly likes that. Every time I try to flirt with him he blushes and looks away. It's actually kind of cute" – Margaery stated, smiling – "I don't think he's the kind of man who makes grand gestures, though"

Sansa tried to disguise her discomfort.

"That would be Jon" – she mumbled.

"I guess I'll just have to work harder to gain his affections" – Margaery said graciously – "Do you think you could put in a good word for me with him?" – she asked.

A maidservant entering in the solar saved Sansa from having to answer Margaery's question.

The girl bowed her head and turned her attention to Sansa

"Lord Lake wishes to speak with you, My Lady" – she said – "He's in the courtyard"

After delivering the message, the girl walked out of the room.

Sansa took a sip of milk, before getting up from her chair.

"He fancies you" – Margaery said with a mischievous smile.

"No, he doesn't" – Sansa laughed.

"Trust me, he does" – Margaery insisted. Sansa shook her head – "You honestly didn't notice how he kept staring at you during dinner?"

"He was just being nice" – Sansa said, running her fingers through her loose hair.

Margaery rose from her chair and approached her. She linked her arm through hers, forcing Sansa to leave the solar. When they reached the door of the chamber, Margaery opened it. She pushed Sansa out of the room and smiled.

"I'm sure he is eager to see you" – she said, winking at her and closing the door.

Sansa frowned. _Did she just push her out of her own chambers?_ She huffed.

She smoothed out her skirts and fixed her hair.

When Sansa reached the courtyard she immediately saw Sebastian. He smiled at her and she smiled in return.

She noticed the two horses near him. He was holding something behind his back.

She approached him and he moved what he was holding to the front of him. Sansa saw the willow picnic basket and arched an eyebrow.

"I thought you might like to join me on a leisurely walk through the woods?" – Sebastian said with a hopeful glance towards her.

Sansa was too stunned to answer him so she just nodded her head in astonishment.

Sebastian's eyes flashed and his smile became even bigger. He handed the reins to Sansa and helped her into her saddle.

His hands lingered on her body and for a moment Sansa pretended that the hands around her waist were Jon's.

When she looked down and saw Sebastian's face she forced a smile, disguising the flicker of disappointment that was starting to show on her face.

He took her hand and kissed it gently. Sansa couldn't help but miss the roughness of Jon's beard against her skin. She shivered, trying to erase that thought from her mind. Sebastian's smile widened.

Before she snapped her reins, forcing her horse to move, she saw Ghost looking at her with a disapproving look.

* * *

Jon hadn't got a good night's sleep since Lord Lake arrived. His brain kept showing him images of Sansa and Sebastian together.

Meals had become a torture, the council meetings a torment, Margaery's constant references to Sansa and Sebastian a nuisance. At this point it was a miracle he hadn't exploded from anger.

Rolling out from bed he made his way towards the balcony.

The sun's rays were starting to light up the sky. His elbows were propped against the stone railing and his eyes were closed against the wind.

He forced himself to remain calm. He needed to stop thinking of her as his. Why couldn't he stop thinking about her?

Images of Sansa's face kept flashing through his mind.

He opened his eyes and took a deep breath. Before his breath could return to normal he saw a figure walking towards the stables. He narrowed his eyes, recognizing the blue cloak that was covering the person's body.

Jon couldn't see her red hair but he knew it was her. Her auburn hair could be hidden by the thick hood but the way she moved her body was undeniable. The person entering the stables was definitely Sansa.

 _The stables? Why would she go there?_ – he wondered – _The sun had just started to rise. She was supposed to be asleep, not wandering around in the gloom of the early morning._

His heart stopped and his mind went to dark places.

 _Was she meeting someone? Lord Lake?_ _Were they lovers?_

Sansa had smiled and laughed with Sebastian from the moment he'd arrived. Sebastian found any excuse to touch her. His eyes were always focused on her lips.

He shook his head

 _No, no, no_ – his conscience spoke – _Sansa wouldn't do that. Sansa is a lady. She wouldn't let him take liberties with her._

He bit the inside of his cheek and forced his feet to move. He needed to get ready for the day ahead.

Despite Jon's efforts the picture of Sansa entering the stables kept following him. After that day, his insomnia increased and he found himself at the balcony, watching Sansa entering the stables, day after day, always wearing the same cloak.

It was torture.

A fortnight later and the green-eyed monster of jealousy was starting to get the best of him. He needed to stop this. The doubts were starting to creep in.

He was about to enter in the Great Hall when the sound of someone laughing invaded his ears. He stopped in front of the half-open door and peered inside. Sansa and Sebastian Lake were talking enthusiastically. His body far too close to hers.

Jon's jaw clenched and his fingers tightened until his knuckles paled. He needed to do something before the spring feast.

* * *

Sansa was barely inside her chambers when a familiar voice invaded her ears.

"Quite a day, hmm?"

She closed the door behind her and looked at him. Jon was standing near the window. He straightened his shoulders and turned his body, looking right into her eyes.

"You and Lord Lake seemed very friendly in the Great Hall" – he spoke and for a moment Sansa had to blink her eyes to make sure that the man in front of her was Jon.

He didn't sound like Jon. Had he been drinking?

"I enjoy his company" – she managed to say, after a few seconds of silence – "He's a very interesting man" – she added, noticing the way he clenched his jaw.

"I don't like him" – Jon spat.

"You don't even know him" – she scoffed.

"And you do?" – Jon immediately asked.

His lips were a flat line of anger as he scowled back at her.

"Yes. As a matter of fact, I do" – Sansa said, clinging his gaze.

Jon took a step forward.

"How well do you know him?" – he asked, narrowing his eyes.

"What do you mean?" – she asked fairly confused.

Jon let out a heavy breath.

"What were you doing in the bloody stables this morning?" – he asked, raising his voice more than he intended to – "Is there where you two meet?" – the words stumbled out of his mouth, practically on their own.

Sansa gasped, then she felt as if his temper had seeped into her. _How dare he?_

"It's none of your business!" – she burst out, refusing to answer his question – "You're not my father nor my brother!"

"No, I'm your king!" – he shouted, immediately regretting the poor choice of words when he saw the way her eyes widened and her mouth gaped open. He pinched the bridge of his nose before speaking – "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like –"

Before Jon could finish his sentence Sansa walked towards him.

Rage burned inside her. She wanted to hit him so much.

She launched herself at him, extending her right arm so she could hit him hard on the chest, but before her fist could touch him, she tripped over her own feet.

Jon caught her in his arms, preventing her from landing hard on the floor.

Sansa looked up and remembered his words when they were practicing in the Godswood.

 _You need to have both feet firmly planted on the ground. This will not only increase your punching power but it'll also help you to maintain your balance should you swing and miss._

She pursed her lips, feeling angrier than ever. She had embarrassed herself in front of him and she didn't even manage to relieve herself of her anger.

"I was practicing, _Your Grace_!" – she exclaimed, emphasizing the last two words like they were poison.

Sansa pushed hard against his chest, increasing the distance between them.

 _Practicing?_ – Jon said to himself, trying to understand her words as a memory invaded his mind.

 _Teach me how to fight_ – he remembered Sansa's words from the day they had swum in the hot spring.

He felt relieved. He felt like a big weight had been removed from his shoulders. Sansa and Sebastian were not lovers.

He looked at her, not knowing what to say. She was angry. He was the dragon but she was the one that was about to spit fire.

"I thought …" – Jon tried to say.

"You thought what? What did you think?" – Sansa snarled out, walking towards him again.

Jon ran his hand through his dark hair, tousling it. He couldn't tell her what he thought. He needed to make her understand his worries without really telling her about his worries.

"He's using you" – exasperation clear on his voice.

"Using me?" – Sansa laughed mirthlessly.

"Yes! He's using you because you're the Lady of Winterfell and you're a Stark and you're my cousin and he's trying to –"

"So now I'm your cousin? A fortnight ago I was your sister!" – Sansa interrupted him – "That's what you told Margaery, wasn't it?" – she added, already knowing the answer.

"How do you know about that?" – Jon asked, confused.

"It doesn't matter how I know! What matters is what you said!" – she exclaimed – "And you said that you still see me as a sister!"

"I don't!" – Jon growled.

"Then why did you say it?" – Sansa yelled back at him.

She was in his face, almost nose to nose as his head lowered and he glared down at her.

"What was I supposed to say, Sansa?" – Jon said softly, a painful sadness in his voice – "How could I tell her that I don't look at you like a brother should look at his sister?" – he added, voice deep.

Sansa's throat hurt suddenly, and she locked eyes with Jon.

His last words started to echo in her head, making her feel dizzy.

What was he trying to say? That he didn't even consider her family? That there was still distance between them, like when they were children? Did he hold grudge against her?

Jon gave a frustrated groan.

"He's trying to take you away from here…" – _me_ , he added to himself – "… from Winterfell"

Sansa took a step back. Jon was not being possessive, he was being protective. She closed her eyes for a moment.

 _Why did he always have to be like this? Why couldn't he stop being like this? Even when they were children and she was nothing but cruel to him he always acted like a protective big brother. Of course he didn't hold grudge against her. He was too honorable, too kind, too Jon._

 _He was protecting her because it was his duty, not because he cared; not because he loved her._

"I'm not a child anymore. I can make my own decisions, Jon" – she said, running a hand through her hair – "Just because he invited me to visit Long Lake, it doesn't mean he has an ulterior motive. I can handle him"

"Sansa…" – Jon tried to say but Sansa cut him off.

"Bash is my friend. He's not trying to …"

Sansa continued to talk but Jon barely listened her. _Bash_. They not only addressed each other by first names but also by nicknames. He really hated the man. He hated him and he wanted him gone. He wanted him far away from Sansa.

He needed to make her understand what he was trying to tell her. He needed to make her stay, otherwise he would lose her forever.

"Sansa!" – Jon suddenly interrupted her, grabbing her hands so he could catch her attention –"I need to ask you something and …" – he trailed off for a second, his eyes downcast – "… and what I'm about to ask you is probably the most selfish thing I have ever said in my life but …"

She swallowed against her dry throat as she noticed the way he was holding her hands. She had missed his touch.

"Jon…"

"I need you to promise me something" – he glanced up, capturing her gaze.

"Promise you what?" – she managed to say. It was a soft mutter, and she wondered if he had heard it.

"Promise me you won't leave Winterfell" – Jon replied, sadness in his voice. He was looking at her with concerned eyes.

Sansa shivered. The anguish and sadness in his voice struck at her heart.

"Winterfell is my home. Why would I want to leave?" – she asked after a moment of silence.

"Just promise me, Sansa" – Jon insisted and Sansa felt her knees trembling.

His arms came around her and he hugged her tight, burying his head against her neck as he closed his eyes. It was like he was clinging onto her for life.

Sansa restrained herself from wrapping her arms around his torso. She didn't know if she would be able to let him go if she did.

"I promise" – she said, her voice muffled against his chest.

Jon moved his head and kissed her forehead. Sansa could feel his smile against her skin. After a moment he released her and made his way towards the door.

He looked at her and smiled again.

Jon followed the Old Gods but he would gladly follow the Faith of the Seven if it meant that he could join hands with Sansa and say the words _: I am hers and she is mine from this day until the end of my days._

He just had to wait till the end of the spring feast and then Winterfell would be theirs again.

No more Margaery. No more _Bash_. Just Sansa and Jon.

He could still hear Sansa's voice echoing in his mind as he walked through the corridors of the castle.

 _I promise._

Little did he know that some promises were meant to be broken.

* * *

 **So, who's ready for the spring feast?**

 **PS: I started a new jonsa fanfic. It's a modern AU "** _ **Vanishing Point"**_ **and I'm really excited about it! It would mean the world to me if you could check it out.**


	7. Broken Promises

_Of course I love you, it is my fault that you have not known it all the while_ ― Antoine de Saint Exupéry

* * *

Sansa couldn't make herself to sit still. She was pacing, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. She was anxious.

She could hear people talking and laughing from downstairs and grew even more anxious. Jon had probably made his entrance. She could picture the Northerners raising their cups and complimenting their King.

Sansa looked at herself in the mirror.

She had worked both night and day and managed to finish her gown just in time for the feast. She was pleased with it.

Her eyes landed on the hairpin Jon offered her. She considered using it but she quickly erased that thought from her mind. The hairpin would stay on her dressing table.

This night was not about Jon and her. This night was about Jon and Margaery. If she would have to spend the entire night watching them dance and smile and flirt, she would make sure to glow; she would make sure all eyes would be on her.

She was still the Lady of Winterfell. At least for one night she would make sure that everyone knew that.

There was a knock on the door and Brienne entered in the room with Ghost at her heels.

"My Lady" – she said, bowing her head – "They are all ready for you"

Sansa felt her heart pounding inside her chest.

Smoothing out her skirts she took one last glance at herself in the mirror.

Brienne escorted her through the castle corridors. They silently walked down the stone steps.

The women approached the doors of the Great Hall and Sansa lowered her gaze for a moment, staring at the floor, trying to control her thoughts, her breathing, her heart …

She let out a heavy and unladylike breath, before raising her chin, disguising all her fears and worries with a beatific smile.

Brienne walked forward and opened the doors, allowing Sansa to step into the room.

* * *

She was a vision in gray.

Brocaded white snowflakes made their way down her skirts. Although the high neckline was simple, covering her collarbone, the bodice side cutouts added a touch of daring to the gown. On the front of her bodice was the figure of a direwolf, embroidered in white thread.

Jon focused his attention in the red thread Sansa used to embroil the wolf's eyes and realized that the direwolf in her gown was Ghost.

Her arms were bare. Her auburn hair was in a wavy ponytail that dropped elegantly over her shoulder.

He noticed that Sansa wasn't wearing any jewels. She didn't need jewels to look exquisite.

Suddenly, his heart stopped and he almost forgot how to breathe when Sansa turned her body so she could look at Ghost. The direwolf was behind her.

The whole room went silent.

He had thought that the bodice side cutouts that exposed her delicate skin were daring, but as he looked at her now, he didn't know how to describe the plunging open back that allowed all people to see her porcelain skin.

Jon watched men gasping in wondering and a possessive feeling invaded his body. His hands tightened on his chair and only good etiquette prevented him from rising from his chair and run towards his cousin. Every male eye stared at Sansa with flashes of hunger, especially Lord Lake – _Bash, as Sansa preferred to call him._

The Lady of Winterfell approached the high table and their eyes found each other. He stood up and pulled the chair out for her. When he took her hand the whole world seemed to disappear. Unconsciously, his thumb started to draw circles over her skin, enjoying how delicate she felt to his touch.

Sansa sat on her chair and her breath quickened as Jon refused to let go of her hand.

"You look stunning" – the words stumbled out of Jon's mouth before he was even aware of his lips parting.

It took him a moment for him to realize what he had just said. He released her hand immediately, feeling his cheeks flush and avoiding eye-contact.

Sansa smiled and caught herself contemplating his appearance.

"You look very dashing" – she said, leaning into him.

Jon turned his head to her, surprised at her words.

Contrarily to most days, Jon wasn't wearing black, at least not completely.

He was wearing a red silk shirt with black Targaryen dragons stitched on it. He considered wearing a doublet, but quickly erased that thought from his mind. He wanted to feel as comfortable as possible. He opted for something simpler: a new coat of black silk.

An overwhelming sensation invaded his body as he realized how close her face was to his. Their noses were barely inches away from each other.

For a moment he wondered if this was how it would feel like if Sansa became his Queen. The compliments, the closeness, the touching... He wouldn't even mind attending to banquets and feasts if that meant that Sansa would be at his side, making him feel safe and complete.

Servants bringing food to their table, made them return to reality.

The Northerners raised their cups and complimented Lady Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell. Some guests even brought her gifts, like fine fabrics and precious stones. Sansa thanked them for their kindness and blushed a little.

She looked at the long banquet tables and watched as their guests ate and talked enthusiastically.

She had missed this. Seeing the Great Hall full of people and happiness warmed her heart.

Before she knew it, Sansa was laughing at something Jon said. They talked about the feast and trivial things. For the first time in a very long time, Sansa felt at home again. Talking with Jon made her feel happier than ever. She remembered their time together, after Ramsay's death. They used to spend hours talking … then Jon departure to King's Landing changed everything. When he returned, Sansa thought that things would remain the same, but Margaery's arrival turned her sweet dream into a nightmare.

Sansa watched him smile at her and smiled in return.

 _He really looks beautiful in red_ – she thought.

She casually moved her hand to rest on his forearm as they talked with some guests who approached the high table.

Their knees touched and Jon held her hand. His touch was gentle. Unconsciously, he entwined their fingers together.

Jon never thought it was possible for him to be so happy in a feast. The spring feast was a success. He was enjoying himself more than he thought it was possible … at least until the dancing began and Lord Lake approached their table.

Sebastian's eyes lingered on Sansa as he offered his arm for a dance.

Jon swallowed his jealousy down when Sansa glanced back at him. He forced a smile and helped her stand. He couldn't resist finding any excuse to touch her.

As Sansa made her way towards the dance floor, Jon refilled his cup with wine.

He could feel his heart beating against his chest. Lord Lake would probably present his proposal to Sansa while they danced.

He had been so wrapped up in Sansa that he completely forgot about Sebastian Lake and his marriage proposal.

He drained his cup, trying to hide his worried expression behind his wine.

He should be the one dancing with her, not _Bash_.

Jon couldn't help but hate the man even more. Contrarily to him, Sebastian Lake was a fine dancer.

Jon wished he had spent more time learning to dance, instead of spending most of his time in the train yard, learning swordplay.

He watched Sansa spinning around and laughing as Sebastian Lake caught her in his arms. Her auburn hair whipped against her back as she threw herself more vigorously into the dance. She looked like a living flame.

When the minstrel took up a new song, Jon gulped. It was a slower tune, the perfect song for a proposal.

* * *

Sansa felt Sebastian pull her closer as they swayed slowly to the beat. She rested her chin over her own hand, the one that was over Sebastian's shoulder. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the music.

She tried not to think about Jon but he managed to invade her thoughts. She wished he was the one holding her right now. She knew Jon didn't like to dance and that he was a terrible dancer, but she wouldn't even mind if he stepped on her feet if that meant that she would be able to feel his skin against her skin; to feel his breath against her neck; to feel his hands on her waist…

She was so lost in her dreams that it took her a moment to realize that Sebastian was talking with her.

She pulled away from him slightly.

"I'm sorry, can you begin again?" – she asked, trying to compose herself – "I didn't –"

Sebastian smiled and Sansa looked more confused than ever.

"Will you marry me?" – he said.

Sansa's mouth fell open, her body coming to a halt as his words echoed in her mind. She focused her eyes on the man in front of him, wishing he could, by some magic, turn into Jon.

She tried to speak but no words came out of her mouth. This was not supposed to be happening.

She wanted to run away from the dance floor and hide herself in her chambers. She didn't want to marry Sebastian Lake.

She tried to imagine a future by his side and shivered. She couldn't even picture a future with Sebastian Lake. He was handsome and charming, and Sansa was sure that he would make a fine husband, but despite all of that she couldn't imagine herself spending the rest of her life as his wife, away from Winterfell, away from Jon.

 _And can you imagine yourself spending the rest of your life watching Jon love someone else in your own home?_ – her conscience spoke.

Unconsciously, she looked at the high table. She immediately caught Jon looking at her. She was trying to read his expression when her eyes landed on the chair next to Jon. She felt a sharp pain in her chest, as if she had been stabbed. Jon was not alone at the high table. Margaery was sat right next to him, on _her_ seat.

 _She's sat on my seat_ – she swallowed against her dry throat.

She felt tears coming to her eyes as she realized that she was having a glimpse of the future.

Sansa snapped her eyes away from Jon and Margaery to look back at Sebastian Lake. She met his green eyes and tried to find a solution, an escape.

 _A solution. An escape_ – the words started to echo in her mind – _He was the solution, the escape_ – Sansa realized.

She felt Jon's gaze on her but refused to look back. She couldn't look back.

Ignoring her heart, she pursed her lips and nodded her answer.

"Yes" – she made herself say, forcing a smile.

Sebastian gave her a surprised smile. Before he could spin her around, Sansa's attention was taken away by Ser Davos seeking a dance with her.

Sebastian bowed his head and gave her one last smile, heading back to his table.

As soon as Ser Davos's hand went to her hip, Sansa released the air she didn't know it was trapped inside her lungs. She put her right hand over his shoulder and tried to control her breathing and enjoy the music.

She had said yes. She had accepted Sebastian Lake's proposal.

 _It was my only option_ – she said to herself – _At least this way I'll not be completely miserable. I won't have to live in the same castle as Jon and Margaery, and see them build a happy life together._

She looked around the room, trying to remember how good it had felt when she stepped into this room, after Ramsays's death. She tried to remember the joy she had felt; the way the stone walls felt warmer when she touched them; the way the air smelt better when she breathed it; the way the floor felt steadier when her feet walked around the room without fear.

 _Winterfell is no longer my home_ – she thought.

The walls turned cold again. The air smelled like roses – golden roses … and the floor, the floor was begging her to fall.

She disguised a sob.

Several men asked for her hand and Sansa tried to ignore the pain in her chest. She wanted to enjoy the dancing and the music but she couldn't. The only thing she could do was to force smiles and fake laughs.

When she finally grew tired of pretending, Sansa staggered away from the dancers.

She could feel the tears pricking her eyes as she left the Great Hall and ascended the steps. She walked through the long corridor, doing her best to fight back the tears. Her lungs hurt and she could hardly breathe.

When she was almost reaching the door of her chambers, a familiar voice invaded her ears.

"You promised" – Jon said.

Sansa sniffed loudly through her nose and rubbed her eyes, before turning her body.

She did her best to breathe normally when her eyes met Jon's.

"What are you doing here?" – Sansa asked, trying to disguise her trembling voice – "You're supposed to be at the feast"

"You said yes" – Jon continued to say, ignoring Sansa's question – "You accepted his proposal" – he added, sounding mad and distressed at the same time.

Sansa felt her heart beating faster as she watched Jon walking towards her.

 _Did Sebastian talk with him already? Did he tell him about their marriage?_

Jon gave a frustrated groan.

"You promised you wouldn't leave Winterfell, Sansa!" – he said – "You promised and –"

"I know … but I, I can't stay" – she interrupted him, feeling her entire body trembling.

His obliviousness only made her feel worse. She knew she shouldn't feel this way but she did. She wanted him to save her, to stop asking questions, to open his eyes and see right through her.

She wanted her life to be a song. And she didn't even mind if the song was a sad one, not if that meant that when she fell, Jon would be the one to catch her in his arms. A sad song would be better than no song at all.

"Yes you can. Winterfell is your home" – Jon insisted.

"Not anymore" – Sansa said so low that she didn't know if she had spoken at all.

"You don't have to marry him, Sansa" – Jon said, taking a step forward, decreasing the distance between them.

Despite the amount of emotions that were invading her body, Sansa mustered up a stubborn look and stared up at him.

"Yes, I do" – she stated.

"Sansa …" – Jon tried to say but his cousin was faster.

"I want to leave" – she said with more roughness than she intended. Jon's eyes widened – "I want to leave Winterfell" – she added, softer this time.

"You want to leave?" – Jon managed to ask. Her words were like a punch in his stomach, hitting him so hard he thought he would crumble – "I don't understand ..." – he breathed – "Why?"

Sansa remained in silence, unable to speak. _Why?_ Why did he have to say _why_? He was supposed to know the answer. In her dreams he knew the answer.

Jon bit the inside of his cheek as the worst scenario ever invaded his mind. He closed his eyes and forced the words to leave his mouth.

"Do you love him?" – he finally asked, doing his best to disguise his discomfort.

His heart thundered in his chest. The mere thought of Sansa saying yes made him feel sick.

He remembered the moment she had accepted Lord Lake's proposal. His insides quivered and his chest tightened. He didn't hear her say the word _yes_ , but when she nodded and Sebastian Lake's smile widened, Jon knew that she had accepted his proposal. In that moment he wanted nothing more than to disappear.

Sansa laughed mirthlessly. _Gods, he was such an idiot_ _and so blind… and so Jon._

"No …" – she said, shaking her head – "… and I probably never will" – she muttered, looking at her own feet.

"Then … I, I don't understand …" – Jon stammered – "Why do you want to leave?"

Tired of pretending, of hiding, of restraining, Sansa stared up at him.

"Because I'd rather live with a man that I don't love than to stay here and watch you be in love with someone else for the rest of my life!" – she blurted, meeting Jon's stunned and widened eyes. Her heart started to beat faster as the words stumbled out of her mouth, practically on their own – "And I know I shouldn't feel this way but I do … I can't help it. It's too painful and –"

Before her mind could register what he was doing, Jon stepped forward and brought his hands up to cup her face. He crashed his lips against her and a small gasp of surprise rose out of Sansa's throat as she felt Jon's lips pressed to hers.

A moment later, Jon withdrew slightly, opening his eyes to look at her for a reaction.

Sansa opened her eyes slowly and almost forgot how to breathe when she met his gaze. His eyes were serious, full of adoration and doubt.

She remained in silence, looking at his beautiful gray eyes. She was too bewildered to speak.

Jon misunderstood her silence.

"Forgi –" – he tried to say but Sansa interrupted him.

She grabbed the back of his head and pulled him back to her, capturing his mouth. Jon moaned, leaning forward into her.

His arms wrapped around her waist and Sansa moved one of her hands so she could feel the skin of his neck.

All the sexual tension between the two of them that had built up over the last months fueled the moment.

When Jon's hand trailed down to span across her lower back, Sansa shivered against his touch and gripped the front of his shirt, keeping him close.

Jon's left hand caressed her cheek and tilted her head to deepen their kiss. Sansa felt Jon's tongue seeking immediate entrance, forcing her mouth to open. She heard him moan into her mouth and felt as if there was fire running through her veins.

She had never felt anything like it. Her whole body felt as if it was on fire.

She moaned as he ravished her mouth. Her hands trailed up his arms and encircled his neck.

Jon's arms moved around Sansa, so he could press her body fully against him.

Touching her was hypnotic and addictive at the same time. He didn't know if he would ever get enough of her; he wanted to touch every part of her.

Her hands moved up from his neck and she ran her fingers through his hair. She pulled his hair tie and laced her fingers in his curls.

Jon pushed her against the stone wall and leaned in, losing himself in her touch.

 _Gods, he'd wanted to do this for so long._

She felt good in his arms, natural.

He reached down and grabbed her thighs before lifting her up. She responded instantly, wrapping her legs around his waist. She pressed her body more fully to his and heard him groan as her hips moved against his.

Her gown crept up her thighs and Sansa clung to him, gripping his shoulder with one hand and the back of his head with the other, as Jon touched her bare skin. She could feel his right hand on her leg, rubbing up and down.

The tingles, racing over her skin, pooled between her thighs. She was addicted to his lips, his hands, his body…

They both knew that this should not feel half as natural as it did.

Jon used to be her brother. Sansa used to be his sister.

 _Half-brother. Half-sister_ – a little voice reminded them. A pitiful excuse, since they both knew that their feelings wouldn't change, not after fate allowed Sansa to reach the Wall and find Jon; not after fate allowed Jon to live again, so Sansa could find him … so they could complete each other.

And maybe they were sinners. Maybe their lust for each other, before they knew the truth about Jon's parentage, was a sin…

 _But it was not a mistake, never a mistake_ – they realized – _How could that be a mistake if nothing about this moment felt wrong?_

Sansa's fingers kept losing themselves in his unruly hair, pulling his face even closer to her own.

Jon's tongue kept plunging into her mouth, deepening the kiss, enjoying the way she moaned against his lips.

They didn't seem to get close enough to one another.

Suddenly, the sound of a scream startled them.

They broke apart. Jon lowered her down, so Sansa's feet could touch the floor again. His hands were still on her waist.

Sansa gripped his tunic. The music had stopped and all she could hear was people talking, shouting and screaming words that she couldn't quite understand. Jon could hear something else. He could hear the sound of wings beating in the sky – dragon wings.

"Rhaegal" – he murmured, looking at Sansa's blue eyes. She looked at him, confused – "One of Dany's dragons is here …" – he managed to say, taking a step back – "I, I need to know what's happening … I need, I need to go …" – he stammered.

His feet started moving. The faint torches illuminated the long corridor. He was about to descend the steps when he stopped.

Jon turned his body. Sansa was still leaned against the wall, a stone statue, looking at him. He locked his gaze on hers.

Unconsciously, he pressed his fingers to his lips, remembering the kiss.

 _How he wanted her. How he loved her._

His body moved by itself. He crossed the corridor in a couple of strides and took her face in his hands. Sansa looked up at him; her lips desperate for his kiss.

Jon rested his forehead against hers and closed his eyes.

He could hear his own heart pounding in his chest as he smelled the unique scent of her skin. He wanted to feel her lips against his again. He was drawn to her, like a moth that is drawn to the light, wishing to kiss the flames.

He was the dragon, but she was the one with fire inside her. All of her was fire: her hair, her lips, her touch, her words …

"Jon, I –" – her sweet voice invaded his ears.

"I'm sorry" – Jon interrupted her before she could finish her sentence; his breathing ragged.

He let go of her head and stepped back.

There was so much that he wanted – needed – to tell her, but he couldn't. Not now. If he allowed the words to leave his mouth _now_ , he wouldn't be able to leave her side, _ever_.

Maybe that was why the only words that left his mouth were the words _I'm sorry_.

 _I'm sorry for leaving like this but I have a dragon to tame_ – he added to himself.

Jon descended the steps and this time he didn't look back.

* * *

Sansa watched Jon disappear from her view.

She put her hand over her chest. Her heart felt like it was ready to bust out of her chest.

 _Gods, she'd kiss Jon._

Her eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen from his kisses.

She pressed her back against the stone wall. It felt cold. She needed Jon's presence, his warmth. The need to be near him made it hard for her to breathe.

She had almost admitted that she was in love with him, but before she could say the three words, Jon interrupted her.

 _I'm sorry_ – his words started to echo in her head.

Insecurity rose in her chest.

Of all the words that he could have chosen, he chose the words _I'm sorry_.

 _Why did he say those words?_ – Sansa started to feel dizzy – _Did he regret it?_

Her heart sank. She remembered the way Jon crossed the corridor and took her face between his hands. She had expected him to kiss her again, to lift her from the ground, to spin her around, to tell her that he loved her … but Jon didn't do any of those things.

He told her _I'm sorry_ and walked away.

For a moment Sansa wondered if she had dreamed it. If their kiss had happened at all.

She pressed her fingers to her lips. Vivid flashes of Jon invaded her mind: the way his lips molded over her mouth; the way his hands touched her skin; the way he set her whole body on fire. She hadn't dreamed it. It had been real.

Sansa felt her eyes sting with hot tears.

Her trembling hands found the iron handle of her door. He entered in her chambers and walked towards the small table in the corner of the room.

She grabbed the jug and filled a cup with wine. An useless attempt to extinguish the fire in her veins.

She made her way to the bed and sat down, trying to control her breathing.

She couldn't jump into conclusions. She had kissed Jon but he was the one who kissed her first. Jon kissed her first. He was the one who initiated it. That had to mean something, right?

"Right" – Sansa murmured, after drinking the wine in the cup.

She put the cup down on the nightstand. She was about to stand up when a feeling of extreme dizziness invaded her body, as if the blood was rushing away from her.

She felt very languid and weak. The room around her was blurring.

Before she knew it, her head fell back against the pillows on the bed and she fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

Jon ignored the worried looks and approached Rhaegal.

He crossed the courtyard and stopped inches away from the dragon – _his_ dragon, as Dany liked to remind him.

Jon couldn't deny that he felt a connection between him and Rhaegal. The type of connection that he didn't feel between him and Drogon or Viserion.

The moonlight illuminated Rhaegal's emerald green scales. Jon could also see a few bronze scales on the underside of his neck and tail. The dragon's bronze eyes looked brighter than polished shields when Jon stroked his wings.

"What are you doing here?" – Jon asked softly – "You're supposed to be in King's Landing"

They stared into each other's eyes and Jon understood why Rhaegal had traveled towards North.

He had sensed that something was wrong with him. Just like Ghost, Rhaegal could feel when Jon was uneasy, sad, angry. These last days had been a torture to Jon and Rhaegal had sensed that.

"I'm fine" – he smiled as Sansa's image invaded his mind – "I'm more than fine" – he added as he continued stroking his big wings.

Rhaegal lied down, enjoying the attention.

Jon remembered when Dany taught him how to fly. He was skeptical at first but once Rhaegal tore through the sky, he understood why his Aunt loved the dragons so much. He felt powerful and invincible on Rhaegal's back. He felt like a dragon … and the view was something that he couldn't quite describe. Everything looked more beautiful, more peaceful.

Every time he hovered over King's Landing he wondered what it would feel like sharing that moment with Sansa. She would love seeing King's Landing from the sky, and Winterfell and Quart and Braavos and all the Seven Kingdoms.

He could already feel Sansa pressed up against his back, her arms around his torso, her legs wrapped around his legs. He could picture her red hair billowing out around her as she enjoyed the beautiful scenery. They could travel all the Seven Kingdoms in less than a month.

 _In less than a month_ – Jon looked at Rhaegal as an idea invaded his mind.

The journey to King's Landing by horse would take him at least a month, but if he rode Rhaegal he would only waste a couple of days.

He could ride Rhaegal and travel to King's Landing. He could tell Dany that he finally found a bride. For the first time in his entire life, Jon wanted nothing more than to discuss his marriage prospects. He wanted to end all the rumors about Margaery and him. He wanted to make Sansa Queen of Winterfell; he wanted to make her _his_ Queen.

He knew that the Tyrells wouldn't be happy once they found out about his decision, so he needed to talk with Dany first. They needed to find a solution. Maybe Margaery Tyrell could have a seat on the Small council, that way Daenerys and Tyrion could keep an eye on her, maybe find her a new husband and make sure that she didn't try anything against them.

Daenerys was good with the political matters. Tyrion was a good advisor. He knew King's Landing and how the game worked. Together they could control Margaery Tyrell.

Lyanna Mormont's voice invaded his ears:

 _Queen Daenerys has dragons, armies and allies. The Tyrells don't stand a chance. You don't have to marry Margaery Tyrell to ensure peace. She doesn't has the upper hand, you do._

Lyanna was right.

Jon ordered Rhaegal to wait for him and entered in the castle.

He made his way towards his chambers and grabbed his quill pen. He immediately started writing a number of letters with instructions and orders. His hand moved by itself.

Once he finished the missives he searched for Ser Davos and Brienne. He asked them to inform the private council about his departure to King's Landing.

Before Ser Davos could ask him any questions, Jon gave him the letters and left the room.

He ran through the corridors and only stopped when he reached Sansa's chambers.

Forgetting all formalities, Jon opened the door and stepped into the room with a grin on his face.

He needed to see her before leaving. He needed to tell her about his feelings. He needed to tell her that he loved her, that he wanted her to be his as much as he wanted to be hers.

He passed through the white curtains of her bedchamber and saw her sleeping figure.

Sansa was lying on bed, sound asleep.

Jon approached her and smiled. He reached out and caressed her cheek gently.

 _She was beautiful. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen._

Jon covered his cousin with the bed furs, before approaching the writing table. He grabbed Sansa's quill pen and searched for the right words.

Jon was never good with words. His script was rough but this time he selected the words with painstaking care. He reread his words and looked over his shoulder, hoping to see Sansa waking up so they could have a proper goodbye, instead of a simple letter, but her blue eyes remained closed.

He sealed the letter and walked towards her.

He wanted nothing more than to stay in this room, next to her, watching her sleep, memorizing every line of her face … but he couldn't. He needed to go so he could return and be hers completely.

He refrained himself from kissing her or touching her again. He knew that if he did, he wouldn't be able to leave her, so he just leaned into her and whispered the words that were not in the letter:

"I love you"

* * *

 **Finally! I know! Still breathing?**

 **I need to know what you think!**


	8. (no) Farewell

**I'm so sorry for the waiting! Happy reading!**

* * *

 _We are never so defenseless against suffering as when we love_ ― Sigmund Freud

* * *

Sansa woke up with sun rays on her face. She couldn't stand the light and curled to her side to block it out. She kept her eyes squeezed tight and took a deep breath to hold down the nausea.

Pain pounded in her head like a blacksmith hitting steal. Sansa groaned and tried to go back to sleep, but she couldn't.

She sat up and looked around the room. It took her a moment to realize where she was.

Slowly, the events of the previous night started trickling back into her head.

 _Jon._

She could still feel the tingle and the burn on her lips where they had brush his.

Her heart thundered in her chest.

She looked at her bare arms and quickly realized that she was still wearing the gown she made for the spring feast. She had fallen asleep without changing to her nightgown.

Sansa pressed her hands to her temples and closed her eyes, trying to understand what had happened, but the pain in her head increased.

She got out the bed and took off her gown, letting it fall to the ground.

She looked at the tub and noticed that it was full of clean water. One of her maids must have prepared her a bath while she was still asleep – Sansa realized.

The Lady of Winterfell was an early riser. She never slept this late. Usually, the water was still warmth when she woke up.

Sansa touched her toe to the water, testing the temperature. The water was cold.

She stepped in and sat down eagerly. The initial shock of the cold water on her skin caused goosebumps to appear over her pale skin. Sansa lay back in the tub; the cold water soothed her body.

She pulled out her hair tie, letting her hair billow out in the water.

She closed her eyes and sank into the tub, enjoying the way the cold water reminded her of winter. She remained like that for a few seconds, until a familiar voice made her gasp for air.

 _I'm sorry._

She came up from the water and put her hand over her chest.

 _I'm sorry._

Jon's words echoed in her head and the doubts from last night returned: _Why did he say that?_

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek, trying to calm herself. She couldn't jump into conclusions.

She got up from the tub and put on a robe, walking towards the dressing table. She sat in front of the mirror and stared at herself.

Her hair was plastered down her face, and water dripped off her chin. She combed her hair as well as she could.

Her thoughts travelled and she felt her cheeks flush. She couldn't take her mind off of Jon. Her heart felt like it was ready to bust out of her chest.

Sansa took a deep breath. She needed to deal with the consequences of her actions without letting her emotions get the best of her. She needed to be a grown woman and face the truth, even if the truth was painful and ugly, she needed to face it.

Exhaling sharply, she rose from the chair.

She needed to get dressed. She needed to get out of this room. She needed to see him.

* * *

The Lady of Winterfell was walking through the corridors of the castle, trying to figure it out what to do; how to act.

 _Should she talk to him? Should she pretend that nothing happened?_

Shaking her head, she berated herself. No, she would not lie. She would not pretend anymore.

Deep down, she knew that she wouldn't be able to pretend that nothing happened.

She was a practiced liar but their kiss had not been a lie, at least not to her. Their kiss had been real. She hadn't dreamt it. There was no way she could look at Jon and pretend that nothing happened; that her entire world didn't stop when his lips touched hers.

"Lady Sansa!" – a voice startled her, making her stop walking.

Sansa caught her ragged breath, feeling her heart pounding fiercely inside her chest.

She forced her body to turn.

"Ser Davos" – she gasped as the beating in her chest returned to normal – "Good morning" – she added in a more controlled voice as Ser Davos approached her.

"Good morning, My Lady" – he said, bowing his head.

Sansa smooth out her skirts and started walking again. Ser Davos followed her.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" – she said, trying to disguise her jitters.

"Yes it is, My Lady" – Ser Davos stated – "Perfect for a leisure walk through the woods, but I'm afraid we'll have to spend the day inside these castle walls" – he added. Sansa looked at the man beside her and arched an eyebrow – "Since Jon is on his way to King's Landing" –he explained, seeing the confused look on Sansa's face.

Suddenly, Sansa stopped walking.

"What?" – she breathed, trying to find the air to keep talking – "He's not here?" – she asked; her head (and heart) pounding in pain.

"No, My Lady. He left before dawn" – Ser Davos said – "He seemed in quite a rush" – he continued to say.

His words were like a knife through Sansa's heart. A million questions started to invade her mind as she tried to process Ser Davos's words.

Jon left. He left before dawn. He left after their kiss.

 _Why? Why did he leave Winterfell? Why did he leave her?_

Sansa could hear her own heart beating as a bad feeling inside her grew stronger.

 _I'm sorry_ – Jon's words invaded her mind again.

Sansa felt herself growing weaker.

The backs of her eyes stung. Tears were threatening, and she willed them back, furious with herself, with everything.

All her hopes and dreams were falling apart.

There was only one explanation for Jon's absence. He left because of her. He left because he didn't want to face her. He left because he regretted what happened. He left because their kiss had been a mistake. He left because he didn't love her.

The air felt like fire in her lungs, as she faced reality.

Sansa tried to disguise her discomfort, as Ser Davos continued to speak:

"The letters say that you should rule in his absence" – he said.

The Lady of Winterfell looked more confused than ever.

 _Letters? What was he talking about?_ – she thought, feeling her entire body trembling.

"He left letters with instructions and orders before leaving the castle" – Ser Davos explained, seeing, once more, the confused look on Sansa's face –"They are very specific, if I may say. He even instructed the kitchen staff to –"

"Do you have my letter?" – Sansa interrupted him, regaining control of her voice.

She needed to face the truth. She needed to read his words. She needed a goodbye.

"I'm sorry, My Lady, but there was no letter addressed to you" – Ser Davos said – "I assumed he talked to you before leaving, but your reaction says otherwise" – he explained. Sansa turned pale – "I'm sure he had a good reason for leaving" – he added gently.

Sansa's mouth felt dry.

Vivid flashes of Jon kissing her invaded her mind, making her feel stupid – a stupid little girl with stupid dreams who never learns.

She blinked away the pinpricks of tears welling up in her eyes and took a deep breath.

"Of course" – she managed to say – "You said we'll have to spend the day inside the castle…" – she added, trying to focus on something else.

"Council meeting" – Ser Davos immediately said – "Jon thought it would be better to address certain matters after the spring feast. He said some lords would be more receptive to accept some terms. He's finally starting to think as a King, don't you think?"

Sansa did her best to breathe normally but her emotions kept getting the best of her. She felt like she was being suffocated.

She could feel an actual physical pain at the very mention of Jon's name.

"Forgive me, Ser, but I need some fresh air" – she said, quickening her pace, not waiting for the man's response.

Sansa hurried down the corridor, feeling like the walls of the castle were closing in on her. She needed air. Her cream gown flew out behind her as she ran through the hallway.

By the time she reached the courtyard she was breathless.

The sound of horses neighing caught her attention. She shuddered and straightened her shoulders, trying to compose herself.

Sansa could see men carrying trunks to a carriage. She narrowed her eyes and saw the sigil of House Tyrell engraved on it.

She noticed a woman knelt in front of one of the trunks, rummaging through the contents.

Sansa's hands moved to straighten her hair while she tried to make her steps go straight.

"Margaery?" – the words stumbled out of her mouth, before she was even aware of her lips parting.

The Lady of Highgarden turned her body and focused her attention on Sansa. Margaery's eyes flashed and her lips curved up in a smile.

"Sansa!" – she exclaimed, walking towards Sansa and wrapping her in a crushing hug.

Sansa almost lost her balance, feeling mired in a semi-permanent state of confusion.

Margaery looked happy, oddly happy. It didn't make any sense. There was no reason for her to look so happy, was it?

"You're leaving" – Sansa managed to say, trying to organize her thoughts – "I thought you were going to attend the council meeting. All the Northern Houses are" – she added, freeing herself from the embrace.

"I can't. I must leave" – Margaery quickly said; her smile became even bigger – "I have a long journey ahead of me. I'll be nearly a month on the road to King's Landing"

Sansa's hands went automatically to her stomach as she tried to control her breathing.

"King's Landing?" – she forced the words to get out of her mouth.

"I received a letter. It seems that there are some matters that your brother wishes to discuss with Queen Daenerys by his side" – Margaery quickly said – "Who knows, maybe I'll come back a married woman" – she giggled – "Queen Daenerys will certainly want a big wedding. She rebuilt the Great Sept. Some say it –"

Margaery continued to talk but Sansa barely heard her. She was starting to get dizzy. She couldn't understand a single thing that was happening.

Sansa disguised a sob. Deep down, she understood exactly what was happening. She wished she didn't, but she did.

Jon left because he didn't want to face the repercussions of his actions; he left so he could fix his mistakes and be the King that everybody expected him to be. He was going to marry Margaery and pretend that nothing happened between them…

 _And maybe he was right_ – Sansa lied to herself – _Maybe nothing happened between them, maybe Jon was drunk, maybe it was an impulse, maybe she misunderstood things, maybe …_

She tried to find excuses to ease the pain, but they ended up having the opposite effect.

Her lungs hurt as she tried to control her breathing.

He didn't even bother to leave her a letter. He didn't even bother to say goodbye.

Before she knew it, Margaery pressed two kisses to either of her cheeks and entered the carriage.

Sansa felt a sharp pain in her chest, as if she had been stabbed. Tears started to run down her cheeks.

She bit her trembling lip and watched the carriage disappear from her view.

Everything was falling apart and Sansa hated herself for being so weak; for allowing her heart to break so easily; for wanting him.

* * *

 **Two days later**

Jon didn't want to make a spectacle, but riding a dragon made it impossible for him to arrive discretely in the Red Keep. As soon as he jumped off of Rhaegal, servants and knights approached him.

Jon hated the attention. He hated the way people looked at him as if he was some God. He didn't want people to look at him and see a King, much less a God.

People bowed their heads as he walked.

Jon turned his head and looked at Rhaegal. He was almost sure that the dragon winked at him before spreading its wings and flying away.

He wished he could do the same.

The image of Sansa invaded his mind and he felt himself break out in a stupid grin.

Unconsciously, he quickened his pace. He needed to speak with Dany, so he could return home; so he could be with Sansa.

He wondered if she had read his letter; if she had understood his words.

He hurried toward Maegor's Holdfast, the castle-within-a-castle. Jon's first stop was Daenerys's chambers, but the Queen wasn't there.

Jon decided to try the Queen's Ballroom.

The two men guarding the doors immediately bowed their heads. Jon tried not to roll his eyes at the rigid rules of etiquette.

As soon as the doors of the Queen's Ballroom opened, Jon saw four women sat around a big table, eating and drinking.

Before he could identify them, a small figure launched at him, making him land hard on the floor. Jon felt a sharp pain on his back and a weight on his chest. He felt hair tickling his nose and moved his head.

His eyes landed on the four women again. They were looking at him with amused expressions. He noticed their classic Dornish features and finally figured it out who they were – the Sand Snakes.

Jon felt his cheeks flush and moved his head, avoiding their mischievous smiles. He immediately saw violet eyes staring back at him; her platinum blonde hair tickling his cheeks.

He tried to shift his position, but her small body wouldn't allow it.

"Dany –" – he tried to say but she interrupted him.

"I'm so happy that you're here!" – Daenerys exclaimed, as if they were the only two people in the room – "Is everything alright? Rhaegal has been so uneasy lately. Are you alright? Is everything alright in the North?"

Jon tried to speak but Daenerys kept throwing questions at him, ignoring the other people in the room. His discomfort increased.

Jon never cared about formalities. He hated wearing fancy clothes. He hated hearing fake compliments. He hated dealing with politics. He hated talking with Lords and Ladies he barely knew. He hated having to look and act like a King.

Daenerys was good with formalities, not him, but now he felt like he was the only one with manners. When did they change places?

Jon could hear the Sand Snakes giggling. Dany was still on top of him, acting more like a wildling, than like a Queen.

Being the only two Targaryens in the world made Daenerys and Jon bond fast.

Jon quickly understood Dany's need to be close to him. He was her only family. Without him she was alone again.

After spending most of her life alone, Daenerys saw in Jon an anchor; someone with whom she could be herself; someone with whom she could share her worries without feeling weak and vulnerable. They were family, and there wasn't anything more important than family.

Daenerys had no memories of Rhaegar. She didn't know what he looked like or how his voice sounded like, but now she had Jon. It was like life had given her a second chance – a second chance to have a family.

Daenerys could be his Aunt but, deep down, she felt like a little sister to him, and when they were not in public she insisted on acting like it.

She never had the chance to act like a child; like an ordinary girl. She never had the chance to jump into her brother's arms and be something more than a Queen, but now she did.

Jon understood all of that, but that didn't change the fact that he still felt a little uncomfortable by Dany's constant demonstrations of affection, especially when there were other people in the room.

 _So much for not making a spectacle_ – he said to himself.

Jon grabbed Danny's arms and she stopped talking.

"I need to talk with you in private" – he said, catching her attention.

Daenerys narrowed her eyes.

"Is something wrong?" – she asked, not moving her body. Jon sighed – "Is this about the Tyrells?" – Daenerys arched an eyebrow –"I'm sorry I invited Lady Margaery to the spring feast without your consent, but I told you we needed to keep an eye on her and –"

"I can't marry her" – Jon interrupted her.

Daenerys crossed her arms over her chest and closed her eyes for a moment.

"Jon, we've talked about this" – she sighed.

"I know, I know … but I can't marry her" – he said. Daenerys opened her mouth but Jon was faster – "And I can't talk with you about this while you're on top of me, so can we please talk in private, preferably with some personal space between us?"

Daenerys huffed and stood up. She turned her attention to the Sand Snakes.

"I'm sorry friends, but my Nephew and I need to have a little chat" – she said – "We'll continue this meeting later" – she added, her voice deep and commanding, before leaving the room.

Jon felt the women's eyes on him. Before he could bow his head, Tyene spoke.

"Your reflexes are terrible" – she said.

The King in the North rolled his eyes. The Sand Snakes never missed an opportunity to tease him. He cleared his throat.

"I'll meet you in the train yard" – he simply said, remembering the time Daenerys and him visited Dorne.

He used to train with the Sand Snakes. They were fine fighters, but overconfident, that was why he always won.

Tyene immediately grabbed her dagger, accepting the challenge.

Jon bowed his head and left the room.

* * *

Tyrion refilled his cup with wine as he watched Daenerys and Jon arguing about the Tyrells.

According to Daenerys, Jon did the exact opposite of what he was supposed to do. He had ignored Margaery Tyrell. He was supposed to gain her trust and get close to her, so they could be one step ahead of her, but Jon didn't do any of that.

"Honestly, Jon! Did you even acknowledge her presence? Did you even make an effort to talk to her? Please tell me you talked to her, Jon!" – Daenerys exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air.

"Of course I talked to her!" – Jon retorted.

Tyrion tried to stifle a laugh and Daenerys threw a dark look in his direction.

The two dragons continued to argue as Jon enumerated reasons why he shouldn't marry her. Poor reasons, Tyrion realized, as Jon insisted on saying that Margaery Tyrell was too ambitious, too calculating, too greedy, too scheming, too sly…

Daenerys kept interrupting him, trying to make him see that his list only proved her point.

Jon started to pace around the room. Daenerys followed him, like a shadow.

The Tower of the Hand had never looked so small to Tyrion. The bickering was starting to make his head hurt.

"How is Sansa?" – Tyrion suddenly asked.

Jon's body came to a halt. He stopped walking so abruptly that Daenerys almost bumped into him.

Jon felt his cheeks flush; his insides fluttered, sending curls of heat through his stomach and shivers all the way down his spine.

Daenerys and Tyrion shared a look as Jon approached the table and filled a cup with wine.

"Did she marry that Northern Lord that was seeking for her hand?" – Tyrion asked, ignoring Jon's frown – "What was his name again? Simon Lake?" – he said, looking at Daenerys – "Stephen?"

The Mother of Dragons shook her head.

" _Sebastian_ Lake" – she corrected him, remembering the man's letter.

"Sebastian Lake" – Tyrion echoed – "I read his letter. He seemed eager to marry her" – he added – "And who can blame him? Lady Stark was always a beauty. Even when she was just a little girl, every man here at court looked at her with hunger in their eyes" – he continued to say, before draining his cup – "And her wisdom matches her looks"

Jon refilled his cup with wine.

Rage irradiated from him. He hated Sebastian Lake. He hated the man and he wanted him far away from Sansa.

He was so focused on his own thoughts that he didn't even hear the sound of a dragon's roar coming from the open window. Before he could lead the cup into his mouth, Daenerys grabbed it.

"Jon, what on earth is happening?" – she exclaimed, catching his attention – "Rhaegal is fighting with Drogon again!" – she added, pointing at the window – "Your mood is influencing his behavior!"

Jon took a deep breath, trying to control his emotions.

"Sebastian Lake can't marry Sansa" – he finally spoke. There was an emotional tremor in his voice.

"Why not? Did he not please her?" – Daenerys asked, trying to understand Jon's words.

"Oh, I'm sure he was more than willing to please her" – he quickly said, grabbing his wine from Dany's hand.

Jon could feel the veins popping out on his temples and the blood rushing to his head. He was slowly losing his human side and embracing the dragon that lived within in, as the green-eyed monster of jealousy revealed itself.

A terrifying roar invaded the room again.

"Jon –" – Daenerys tried to speak but Jon cut her off.

"I don't want her to marry him!" – he blurted.

Daenerys and Tyrion's eyes widened, stunned by Jon's declaration. It took him a moment to realize what he had just said; what he had admitted.

"You're in love with her…" – Tyrion said and somehow the sentence sounded like a question.

The Hand of the Queen was expecting anything but that.

Tyrion remembered Sansa and Arya's time at court and how different they were. If the two sisters were as different as night and day, then Jon and Sansa were as different as the sun and the moon … or maybe he was completely wrong and they were just two sides of the same coin; maybe they completed each other in ways that only the heart could explain.

"Aye" – Jon said; the emotions he tried to hide gave his voice a little quiver – "I'm in love with her…" – his mouth quirked into a smile – "… and I think she loves me too"

He felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. He had finally admitted his feelings out loud.

Jon looked at Dany, waiting for a response, but an uncomfortable silence invaded the room.

Daenerys walked towards the window, running her fingers through her long blonde hair.

"You do know what happened the last time a Targaryen courted a Stark, don't you?" – she sighed, closing her eyes.

"History will not repeat itself. There will be no war, Dany" – Jon quickly said, approaching her – "I'm not Rhaegar and Sansa is not Lyanna" – he added as he reached for her hand and squeezed it.

Daenerys remained in silence. The fear of a new war made her feel nervous. She was tired of fighting. They were finally at peace. She didn't know if she would be able to fight another war; to lose her family again.

She looked at her brooding nephew. He was waiting for her approval with hope in his eyes.

Daenerys remembered the way Jon used to talk about Sansa. He was great at keeping his emotions well hidden but every time he spoke Sansa's name something in his face changed – his features softened and his typical tension disappeared from his brow.

Daenerys wondered if Sansa could also make him laugh. Something inside her told her that she could. He used to smile every time a raven arrived with a new letter from Winterfell; from Sansa.

It all made sense now.

 _How could I not see this sooner?_ – she wondered – _How could I not see that Jon was in love with his cousin?_

In fact, Daenerys was just now starting to realize that Jon never showed interest for any woman at court. They used to offer him mischievous smiles and look at him for a few seconds too long, but Jon never stared back. He never wanted to speak about his marriage prospects, until now.

Daenerys smiled. Maybe this was a good thing. Love used to be irrelevant to people like them. Arranged marriages were a common thing between highborn people. Rulers didn't have the luxury of marrying for love. Marriages were based on power, wealth, land, necessity and convenience … but maybe Jon and Sansa could change that.

Maybe Jon was right: history didn't have to repeat itself. Jon was not Rhaegar and Sansa was not Lyanna. They could be happy and Dany wanted nothing more than to see Jon happy. She wanted him to stop being so broody; to stop complaining about being King.

Jon and Sansa could write a new History; a better History. They were not doomed to be a tragedy.

Daenerys met Jon's gray eyes and nodded, saying without words that he had her blessing. Her nephew's eyes seemed to light up and his smile warmed Dany's heart.

She moved her right hand and pushed a lock of hair from his forehead.

"What about Margaery?" – Tyrion broke the silence. The Targaryens looked at him, confused – "What if she is Robert?" – he added.

"She's not in love with me" – Jon stated, remembering Robert's Rebellion and the story of the Battle of the Trident.

Prince Rhaegar loved his Lady Lyanna and that love sent thousands to their respective deaths; that love contributed to the outbreak of Robert's Rebellion; that love started the entire war.

History was not going to repeat itself. Margaery was not in love with Jon.

"No, she's in love with power" – Tyrion said with a rueful grin.

* * *

 **Sorry for the lack of Jonsa in this chapter, but our babies need to be apart for a while longer before they can be face to face again. Don't we all love reunions?**

 **Thank you all so much for reading and leaving reviews!**


	9. Royal Decisions

**Thank you so much for the reviews! I love reading every single one, they make my day!**

* * *

 _Sweetest love, I do not go,_

 _For weariness of thee,_

 _Nor in hope the world can show_

 _A fitter love for me._

― John Donne

* * *

 **A fortnight later**

Daenerys opened the door of Jon's chambers.

Her nephew's room was as neat as ever.

The books that lined the shelves were arranged in alphabetical order. The bed was perfectly made. His weapons were lined up along the wall in order of size. Most of the weapons were gifts, and Daenerys was sure that Jon had never used them.

A small and sad smile appeared on Dany's face. Jon had lived so long not knowing who his mother was – who _he_ was – that it made sense his need of exerting control over some elements of his life. The careful alphabetization of his books was a good example of that.

Daenerys noticed Longclaw glittering across the room, next to the writing desk.

Jon always made sure that his papers and letters were stacked carefully on the desk, but not this time.

 _Maybe Jon's room was not as neat as ever, after all –_ the Queen said to herself as she looked at the desk before her. The desk was covered with scattered papers and various maps.

Jon barely needed servants. He was used of taking care of himself. He might have lived most of his life as the Lord of Winterfell's bastard, but Lady Catelyn Stark always made sure to emphasize the fact that he was not a Stark, which meant that he was not allowed to have the same treatment – the same luxuries – that his siblings/cousins had.

He learned how to make his bed and clean his own bedchamber. He even knew how to peel potatoes, he had confessed during one of their many conversations.

Daenery's chest ached unbearably when she thought about a small boy searching for approval; trying to please a woman who refused to love him. No matter how hard he tried, he could never draw a smile on her face; he was doomed to fail.

Catelyn Stark's refusal to accept Jon as family made Daenery's stomach twist. She couldn't help but hate the woman.

She knew that Jon never blamed Lady Stark for the way she treated him.

 _She hated me, but I never hated her_ – Jon used to say.

The small boy with gray eyes and raven hair never hated the woman who hated him. How could he hate someone whom he tried so desperately to please? All he ever wanted was to be loved by her. He wanted a mother.

Daenerys whished Jon had been the one by her side, during her childhood, instead of Viserys. How wonderful her life – their life – could have been.

Jon had a good heart. He was raised in the North, but his heart was not cold – it was warm.

She couldn't understand how anyone could not love him. Jon was so easy to love.

She found him on his private balcony that overlooked Blackwater Bay. His elbows were propped against the stone railing; his head cradled in his hands.

"I need to return home" – Jon said, feeling her presence at his side.

Daenerys frowned. She wanted to say that he was already home, but managed to prevent the words from leaving her mouth.

"Margaery Tyrell is coming to court, Jon" – she stated – "Your presence is required here. You were the one who asked her to –"

"Didn't we reach a decision already?" – Jon suddenly snapped, looking at his aunt.

The Dragon Queen sighed.

"There are formalities we have to go through. Your absence would be considered an insult" – Daenerys explained, resting her forearms on the railings like he was.

Jon turned his attention back to the bay.

His thoughts traveled and he remembered Bran. His brother/cousin had returned home almost six moons after the Battle of Bastards, only to leave again. He was accompanied by Meera Reed and Howland Reed.

It was Bran who revealed Jon's true parentage. He told him about his title as the Three-Eyed Raven and his vision – the events that unfolded at the Tower of Joy towards the end of Robert's Rebellion.

He told Jon and Sansa how he followed Ned Stark and watched him find Lyanna in a bed of her own blood. He told them that she had given birth to a newborn son by her alleged kidnapper Rhaegar Targaryen. He told them about the way she implored Ned to protect him from Robert Baratheon. He told them that the baby was Jon; Howland Reed confirmed it.

In that moment, Jon's world came apart as he realized that everything he believed was a lie; his life was a lie.

Bran left Winterfell before the White Walkers descended upon Westeros from the farthest north.

Jon had not heard from him since then, but something in his chest told him that Bran was still alive and that he was watching over them.

"What if she doesn't accept the seat on the Small council?" – Daenery's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"She won't refuse a high position at court" – Jon stated. _She's not stupid_ – he said to himself.

 _She's in love with power_ – Tyrion's words echoed in his head.

"A high position at court is not exactly a crown" – Daenerys retorted.

"I never promised her a crown" – Jon said with more roughness than he intended – "It's not my fault that people started to make assumptions"

"But the spring feast –" – the Queen tried to say.

"It was for Sansa!" – Jon felt his voice rise, but he didn't bother to force it back down – "I didn't invite Margaery, _you_ did! You know I've never wanted to marry her!" – he exclaimed.

Daenerys winced at his tone. It was a rare sight to see Jon angry, even more so for him to be angry at her.

She looked at Jon and noticed the shadows under his eyes. He looked tired.

The King in the North sighed, running his fingers through his dark curls.

"I'm sorry, Dany. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that" – he said in a more controlled voice.

Daenerys reached over him, put a hand on his cheek and turned his face towards her.

"When was the last time you slept?" – she asked, looking right into his gray eyes.

She pushed a lock of hair from his forehead.

"She didn't reply to my letter" – he said, not answering Dany's question.

 _So that is why his desk is covered with scattered papers_ – Daenerys realized – _They must be unsent letters._

Dany remembered Jon's time at court, right after they defeated the White Walkers. She still couldn't understand how she managed to keep him away from Winterfell for so long, but somehow she did.

She remembered the way her nephew used to jump from his seat and lock himself in his chambers every time a raven arrived with a new letter from Sansa. Jon would write and write and write … He would send his response himself, not wasting any time with formalities, and then he would wait and wait and wait, until a new letter arrived.

Jon used to write at least four different letters, before he was pleased with his words.

Daenerys could still hear Tyrion's comments. According to him, they could write the entire History of the Seven Kingdoms using all the crumbled papers of Jon's unsent letters.

"I keep saying to myself that if she didn't reply she must have had a good reason, but …" – Jon trailed off.

"Perhaps she fears interception. Ravens are easy targets" – Daenerys commented – "Even a harmless letter can prove fatal should it fall into the wrong hands. I'm sure she's just being cautious" – she added – "Do you have any news from the North?"

"Davos has been sending me letters. Council meetings reports and stoic observations of Winterfell" – _and of Sansa's behavior_ , Jon said to himself.

According to the man, the Lady of Winterfell didn't show any signs of tiredness. The northern lords were happy with the way she conducted the council meetings. She ate well. Ghost spent the nights in her chambers and Lady Brienne was always close by…

Jon couldn't help but feel relieved with the information that Ser Davos provided him. He just hoped that Sansa didn't find out about his reports. She would probably think that he was spying on her; that he didn't trust her, when the truth was that he just needed to know if she was safe.

"The Northern Houses started to leave Winterfell a sennight ago" – Jon continued to say – "They've accepted the new terms relating to the Free Folk"

"Good" – Daenerys nodded – "And what about Lord Lake?" – she asked, looking at Jon.

Jon tried to remain with a neutral face.

The mere mention of the man's name made him unreasonably angry. Or maybe it wasn't as unreasonable as it seemed – Jon realized – Maybe this was one of his family traits; the fiery, violent Targaryen blood. Jon could now feel it running through him very strongly.

He clenched his jaw so hard he thought his teeth might crack.

"I've sent him a Royal Decree" – he stated.

* * *

Sansa pulled a chair close to the hearth, took down one of her favorite books, and lost herself in the stories of _Florian and Jonquil_.

She was enjoying her reading when a memory invaded her mind – the day Lyanna Mormont left Winterfell.

 _Sansa watched Lyanna mounting her horse and her heart ached a little. She would miss the small girl. She reminded her of another small girl._

 _She's not a small girl anymore – she heard her own conscience say – Arya is a grown woman now._

 _She never thought she would miss her little sister so much. The old Sansa wouldn't, but the Sansa from the Present did; the Sansa from the Present needed her._

" _He'll come back" – Lyanna said, leaning down so Sansa could hear her – "He'll come back" – she repeated, but the Lady of Winterfell was too bewildered to speak – "For you" – she added with a smile._

 _Lyanna kicked the horse, forcing the Mormont men to follow their brave leader._

Sansa shook her head, trying to erase that memory from her mind. She needed to stop thinking about Jon.

He'd made a decision. He'd decided to leave Winterfell. He'd decided to build a future with Margaery.

Lyanna was wrong.

Yes, Jon would return home, but not for her; he would return for the Realm, for the North, for Winterfell, for him. He would return because it was his duty.

Sansa took a deep breath and focused her attention on the book.

" _You are no knight, I know you. You are Florian the Fool" – Jonquil said._

" _I am, my lady, as great a fool as ever lived, and as great a knight as well" – Florian said._

" _A fool and a knight? I have never heard of such a thing" – Jonquil said._

" _Sweet lady, all men are fools, and all men are knights, where women are concerned" – Florian stated._

A knock on the door disturbed her reading.

Sansa put down the book and walked towards the door, hoping not to see Davos on the other side. His constant questions were starting to annoy her a bit. He even asked her about her meals. She was the Lady of Winterfell, not a child who needed a guardian.

Lately it seemed like all people in the castle had decided to control her moves… or to please her.

Even the kitchen staff decided to treat her like a child. She wanted to hate the cooks but she couldn't. She loved lemon cakes and the kitchen staff made enough lemon cakes for a whole year.

She couldn't help but find the servants' behavior strange.

Her thoughts traveled to Ser Davos's words:

 _He left letters with instructions and orders before leaving the castle –_ he had said the day after Jon left Winterfell _–They are very specific, if I may say. He even instructed the kitchen staff to –_

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek, realizing what was really happening. Jon was the responsible for the servants' behavior.

 _What was his plan? To control her? To punish her? To fatten her?_

Sansa opened the door, ready to face Ser Davos.

"Sebastian" – she said, looking at the man in front of her. Slowly, the anger started to leave her body – "Didn't we agree to meet in the courtyard before dinner?" – she asked, hand coming out to guide him to inside the room.

"I'm leaving" – Sebastian said, watching Sansa closing the door.

"Leaving?" – the Lady of Winterfell asked, confused.

"A raven arrived this morning" – Sebastian said.

"A raven?" – she asked again.

"A Royal Decree" – Sebastian stated – "King Jon annulled our engagement" –he explained, walking towards the nearest window – "He probably found someone more suitable to be your husband; someone from the South" – he added, not even trying to disguise his signs of irritation.

"What? No…" – Sansa said, shaking her head – "Jon would never do that. He knows I don't want to leave the North … I don't want to go South" – she tried hard to cling to some hope –"There must be another explanation"

 _There must be another explanation_ – the words echoed in her head.

Sansa could hear her own heart beating as a bad feeling inside her grew stronger.

 _Why was Jon doing this to her? Why did he annul her engagement?_

If this was a song, the answer would be: because he loved her; because he was planning to marry her; because he wanted her to be his.

But this wasn't a song. Jon left without saying goodbye. Margaery was travelling to King's Landing.

 _I'd rather live with a man that I don't love than to stay here and watch you be in love with someone else for the rest of my life!_

Jon knew that she didn't want to stay in this castle anymore. He knew she wanted to leave. He knew she would not be able to watch him love Margaery for the rest of her life.

Sansa felt herself growing weaker. She could feel the world – her world – going darker and it became harder and harder to breathe.

She was now more confused than ever.

Sebastian Lake took her hand and kissed it.

"I'm sorry, Sansa … I really am" – he said, opening the door – "I wish things had turned out differently but I cannot do anything about it now" – he explained, before stepping out of the room.

Sansa gulped, trying to control the amount of emotions that were invading her body. After a few seconds, she forced her feet to move.

Before she could close the door, Ser Davos appeared right in front of her. He was about to open his mouth, but Sansa was faster.

"We need to talk" – she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

* * *

 **A sennight later**

Tyrion, Jon and Daenerys were outside on the battlements, watching the Tyrell party leave the Red Keep.

"Well, that went well" – Jon spoke, remembering their meeting with Margaery Tyrell.

The Lady of Highgarden accepted the seat on the Small council.

She didn't talk about marriage prospects and she didn't make any demands. She just thanked them for their kind offer and smiled.

Margaery asked to visit Highgarden before moving definitely to court. She missed Loras and her home. She wanted to be the one informing her brother about her new position at court.

She promised to return to King's Landing in less than two moons.

"Too well" – Tyrion commented.

"Perhaps we should find her a husband" – Daenerys suggested – "Someone whose loyalty is to be absolutely trusted, determined, un-renounceable…"

"I could easily play that role" – Tyrion said – "For the good of the Realm, of course" – he added, glancing at Daenerys.

The Queen immediately looked at him.

"Replacing me already?" – she frowned.

"Hardly" – Tyrion said, enjoying the way Daenerys narrowed her eyes – "She has her uses, but not your charm" – he added.

Daenery's lips twisted into a smirk.

Jon watched Tyrion and Dany sharing a look.

The King in the North arched an eyebrow.

 _Were they flirting?_

The mischievous smile on Tyrion's face was all the answer he needed.

Jon felt his cheeks flush red as he remembered the amount of time Daenerys used to spend at the Tower of the Hand or the long meetings that Tyrion and the Queen used to have.

He felt awkward in their company and struggled to compose himself. For a split second, Jon thought he had travel to the Past. The awkwardness he was feeling now was the same he used to feel every time he caught Robb flirting with a girl.

In an awkward movement he rigidly started walking. He wanted nothing more than to find Rhaegal and return home.

"And where do you think you're going?" – Daenery's voice, made him stop walking.

He closed his eyes for a second, before turning his body.

"I'm going to Winterfell" – Jon said, facing his aunt – "I did what you asked. I've waited for Margaery's arrival and helped you negotiate with her, but now Margaery is not here anymore, which means that my presence is no longer required" – he added, before Dany could protest.

The Dragon Queen smiled. Jon looked at her, confused. He was expecting her to argue with him, not a beatific smile.

"I'm going with you. It's about time for me to meet the North" – Daenerys stated, catching Jon by surprise – "And Sansa" – she winked at him.

* * *

 **Next chapter: Jon and Sansa's reunion, I promise!**

 **Share your thoughts with me!**


	10. Pawn or Queen?

**I'm so sorry for the waiting but this chapter was a hard one to write.**

 **I really hope you like it! Happy reading!**

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 _I love you, with a touch of tragedy and quite madly_ – Simone de Beauvoir

* * *

It took the royal party two months to get to Winterfell. Dany wanted to see most of the northern lords before stopping there. Unlike Jon, she cared about politics (Jon cared about Sansa).

When Daenerys informed Jon that she was going with him to Winterfell, he thought that it would be just the two of them and the dragons… but the Dragon Queen had other plans. She summoned southron lords and knights to accompany them, which meant that their journey to the North would be by horse. The dragons would not leave King's Landing.

 _Formalities. Formalities. Formalities –_ Jon sighed.

All he wanted to do was return north, back to Winterfell; to Sansa, but he also understood Dany's reasons.

The Queen had never travelled so far north, and the northerners were excited to see their true ruler walking through their lands, learning about their customs, listening their demands and complaints.

Daenerys was a good queen. She was willing to put the needs of her people before her own desires. She always wished to rule with justice.

Her time amongst the Dothraki taught her pride, confidence and skills of command. She abhorred slavery, and made it her priority to stop the slave trade. Because of that, she was especially loved by the former slaves.

Despite her constant demonstrations of affection, Jon wouldn't want her any other way, he realized with a half-smile. He was her only living relative and he had grown to love her like a brother loved a sister.

 _A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing_ – Jon had once heard Maester Aemon say to Sam.

During his time in King's Landing, Jon learned that Daenerys loved the sea. She used to ride along the coast. She liked to speak with the sailors and to hear their songs and stories.

She also loved to read children's stories.

Every time Jon watched Dany playing with the northern children a sad smiled appeared on his face. He couldn't help but feel his heart sink a little. It killed him sometimes, knowing Daenerys wouldn't have children.

She would make a wonderful mother. She loved children. She had the blood of the dragon running through her veins, but her heart was gentle. Unfortunately there would never be children running around the halls of the Red Keep.

 _But, perhaps, someday there could be children running around the halls of Winterfell…_

Jon's heart hammered against his chest. His need to be near Sansa was increasing.

Memories and dreams blended to form an image of life with Sansa at his side.

He could already feel the contentment of waking up each morning with her beside him; of seeing her smile before breaking his fast; of walking into his bedchambers every evening and having her take him into her arms and kiss him.

Their life would be perfect. He was sure of it.

They reached the castle before nightfall.

When the gates of Winterfell opened Jon felt his stomach twist into uncomfortable knots.

They sent a raven ahead, because according to Daenerys there were _formalities_ they had to go through.

Jon tried not to roll his eyes.

People cheered at the sight of the royal party and he smiled slightly.

 _Of course Sansa had the whole household out in force to greet them_ – he thought as he dismounted.

He looked around, feeling the cold wind caressing his cheeks. Everything looked like he remembered it. The walls were as high and dour gray as ever, but it was only when he saw Sansa that he felt at home.

His smile became bigger when he watched his beautiful cousin greeting each of the knights in turn. Sansa knew all their names and their houses.

 _Of course she knew._

Then she turned to Jon and he was suddenly out of breath.

She was wearing a pale lilac dress. Green leaves and golden vines were embroidered from both shoulders of the dress down to the skirt to meet an embroidered direwolf.

The Lady of Winterfell opted for the classic Northern hairstyle: two braids beginning at the top of her head ending in a single braid.

Her skin looked luminous and soft.

Jon couldn't help but feel his heart beating against his ribcage.

She was only three steps away and Jon didn't know if he was the one moving or if it was Sansa the one decreasing the distance between them.

Unconsciously, Jon started counting the few freckles sprinkled across her nose. He already knew that she had twelve freckles, but he liked to count them over and over again. He felt as though he could count her freckles forever. Twelve freckles. She had exactly twelve freckles across her nose.

Jon smiled.

He looked into her eyes and had only a moment to absorb the shock of seeing her angry face before she pushed against his chest with both hands.

Her sudden action took Jon by surprise.

The courtyard went silent, even the horses stopped neighing. Everyone watched, in silence, as Sansa's rage rose to the surface, a hot, unstoppable tide.

"How could you?" – she demanded, hitting his chest with her small fists – "You didn't even say goodbye! You just left!" – she said, accusatory. Jon tried to speak but Sansa was faster – "And then you sent Bash away! Why did you send him away? Bash was my only chance to get away from here. I told you I wanted to leave …"

Sansa continued to talk but Jon barely heard her. Any words he might have said abandoned him. The word _Bash_ was echoing in his head and Jon could feel the veins popping out on his temples; his pulse throbbing.

 _Why was she talking about Sebastian Lake?_ – her words made little sense to him.

He thought that their kiss had established that she didn't need to wed Sebastian Lake; that he didn't want her to wed Sebastian Lake.

Jon clenched his jaw.

He always hated the man. He hated when anyone, besides him, let their gaze on Sansa last too long. The idea of Lord Lake touching Sansa made him want to commit murder.

He didn't regret sending him away. He wanted him far away from Winterfell; from Sansa.

Sansa pushed at his chest, without much success.

"I'm not a child that you can lord yourself over!" – she exclaimed, making Jon return to reality. His eyes showed surprise, but he didn't move – "You have no right to make my decisions for me. I'm not a pawn!" – she felt her voice rise, but she didn't bother to force it back down.

Jon continued to look at her, feeling mired in a semi-permanent state of confusion.

 _Of course she was not a pawn. She was a Queen – his Queen._

She looked so fierce. Her red hair shone as if the sun – the fire – itself lived within her. Her blue eyes were set, harsh and questioning, narrowing further as she spoke. She looked like a Queen.

She could almost breathe fire, like the real dragons could.

Sansa pounded her fists against Jon's chest, growing more enraged as he remained passive. She hit him again, faster, harder, but he stood as still as a statue.

"And you told the kitchen staff to make lemon cakes? What did you think that would accomplish? My forgiveness?" – she threw another punch – "My silence?" – she attacked him again –"My obedience?" – she moved close to him, so they were almost nose to nose , then lowered her voice – "You can eat them yourself, because I don't like them anymore"

Sansa spun around and was gone in a swirl of skirts.

The double meaning of her words hung heavy around Jon as he watched her walk away from him.

He wanted to move, but his feet were too heavy. It was as if they were frozen.

He opened his mouth, but he was too bewildered to speak. It was like he was encased in a clear glass barrier.

Despite his frozen-in-place condition, his mind flashed back to the night he had kissed her: the way she grabbed the back of his head and captured his mouth; the way she gripped the front of his shirt, keeping him close; the way her hands trailed up his arms and encircled his neck; the way she pulled his hair tie and laced her fingers in his curls; the way she wrapped her legs around his waist…

Sansa's reaction was like a bucket of cold water poured over his head. He couldn't understand what was happening.

"I like her already" – Daenerys stated, interrupting his thoughts.

Jon threw a dark look in her direction and Daenerys smirked.

* * *

Sansa was slowly unbraiding her long hair as she stared out the window. It hung loose, almost all the way to her hips.

A knock on the door startled her.

The Lady of Winterfell straightened her shoulders and turned her body.

Brienne entered in the room. The woman bowed her head.

"The Queen wishes to speak with you, My Lady" – she announced.

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek, trying to hide her discomfort. She knew this moment was inevitable. She couldn't delay it forever.

Margaery was Queen now. She was Jon's wife now. The woman who didn't believe in songs was living _her_ song.

Sansa felt a sharp pain in her chest. Her life was a never ending nightmare.

Margaery would probably want to talk about the scene she had made in the courtyard. Sansa had purposely ignored her, focusing her attention on Jon. She had turned the King in the North into a straw dummy. She had tried to take her frustration out on him, and failed.

She thought that arguing with Jon would relieve herself of her anger, but she was wrong. It only made her feel worse.

Jon was not hers. That realization made her incredibly sad.

She felt betrayed. Sansa knew that she shouldn't feel that way, but she did.

Maybe she was being childish, but she didn't care. Being the perfect lady for so long was exhausting... and in the end her efforts had been for nothing. She was no longer engaged. Jon had made sure of that.

She was stuck in a castle that didn't feel like home anymore. Jon had ruined her only chance to escape from her sadness.

Sansa was starting to believe that she was being punished for the way she had treated him when they were children. Jon had been an outsider and now he was determined to turn her into a prisoner.

The thought of running away, like her aunt Lyanna once did, crossed her mind...but, unlike her aunt, she didn't have a prince to run into. Her escape would be useless.

She was cursed. She was doomed to have a miserable life.

The sound of a door closing made her return to reality.

Sansa was so focused on her own thoughts that she didn't even notice that Brienne was no longer in the room. The woman in front of her was much smaller. She had the most beautiful blonde hair that Sansa had ever seen.

Her indigo eyes glittered, never once wavering from her, and Sansa finally realized that the woman in front of her was Daenerys Targaryen, _the_ Queen.

The Lady of Winterfell blinked.

Daenerys was _the_ Queen, not Margaery.

She was wearing a red sleeveless gown, snug around her waist and fanning out at her hips. A silver dragon snaked its way up her neck. Her blonde hair was held away in a complicated array of braids. She was beautiful.

Unlike women, men would never understand the power of a braid or a pretty gown. They were lured to it, but it was not their domain. A beautiful gown and the perfect hairstyle could be a woman's most powerful weapons. It bewitched men. It made them want to serve.

"Your Grace" – Sansa said, regaining control of her thoughts and voice. She immediately sank down into a curtsy, feeling her cheeks flush red – "Please forgive my past behavior. I was utterly rude"

Daenerys approached her, pulling her to stand.

"There's nothing to forgive. Frankly, I found it rather amusing" – the Dragon Queen said, holding Sansa's hands – "And please call me Dany, I insist"– she added, offering Sansa a warm smile.

The Lady of Winterfell nodded. She appreciated how she set her at ease.

"I'm so glad to finally meet you. Jon told me so much about you" – Dany said – "I feel like I already know you" – she chuckled – "When he told me that you played the high harp I couldn't help but think about my brother. I've never met Rhaegar but everybody tells me that he played songs of such beauty they could reduce men to tears" – she explained –"Perhaps you have his spirit"

Sansa shook her head, feeling her cheeks flush.

"I'm honored, but I can't accept your praise as there are no grounds for it" – she said – "Prince Rhaegar was the best musician who ever lived. I'm just an amateur" – she added, running her fingers through her hair.

"Don't be modest" – Daenerys insisted – "From what Jon told me you excel at anything you put your mind to"

"I fear he exaggerated, Your Grace" – Sansa said humbly.

"Dany, please Sansa" – Daenerys corrected her.

The Lady of Winterfell invited the Queen to sit on a chair before the fireplace.

"Dany" – Sansa echoed, as she came to sit in the seat next to her.

The warmth from the crackling firewood kept the room cozy. The two women stared at the flames licking around the dry log.

"I owe you an apology, Sansa" – Daenerys said and Sansa gave her a confused look – "I ruined the entire meaning of the spring feast. It was me who invited Margaery to the feast, not Jon..." – she explained –"And in doing so I caused you some distress" – she added – "When I wedded Drogo, I thought I would never love him, but I did..." – a sad smile appeared on her face – "It was an arranged marriage but I learned to love him… and I was happy" – she continued to say – "I didn't have a kingdom, but I was happy"

Sansa remained in silence, waiting for Daenerys to continue.

"Jon and Margaery's marriage would benefit the realm. It would prevent a rebellion. It would ensure peace" – the Queen stated.

"I know" – Sansa said; her voice barely a whisper.

"But I also thought that if Jon wedded Margaery he would be happy" – Dany continued to say – "That, maybe, in time, he would come to love her" – she paused, looking right into Sansa's eyes – "I was oblivious to the fact that he was already in love with someone else"

Sansa gasped. She wrung her hands nervously in her lap.

She couldn't believe what Daenerys was implying.

Her mind was muddled with impossible possibilities.

Jon didn't go to King's Landing to wed Margaery. That was not why he left. He left because he needed Daenerys's support to end the rumors about Margaery and him. He left because, perhaps, he wanted to inform Daenerys about his heart's desires?

Sansa shook her head in dissent.

"I, Jon…" – she stammered as Daenerys's words echoed in her head. She rose from her chair and took a deep breath, before continuing – "Jon is not in love with me" – she said with certainty.

"He surely is" – Daenerys insisted.

Sansa felt overwhelmed.

She swallowed the knot building in her throat.

 _Did Jon really return her feelings?_

She opened her mouth to speak, but could produce no sound.

 _Jon loved her._

Sansa was starting to get dizzy as if her brain couldn't process Daenery's words. She could hear her own heart beating.

She flushed. Could her life still be a song, a happy song?

Daenerys held her hand gently.

"A long time ago, my father sent his first cousin, Lord Steffon Baratheon, to seek a bride for Rhaegar. I don't want to make the same mistakes that my father did" – she said, making Sansa look at her – "I don't want to force Jon to marry someone whom he does not love. He deserves to be happy"

Daenerys's words reflected Sansa's desires. She wanted Jon to be happy as well. He never was happy. That realization struck at Sansa's heart.

She had not been happy all her life, but at least she had happy memories of her childhood. Jon didn't. He never felt that he belonged and Sansa couldn't help but feel responsible for that.

She took a deep breath. She wanted to right the wrongs.

She wanted Jon to be happy. Happy with her.

She wanted him to feel that he belonged, that he wasn't alone anymore and never would be again.

"I shouldn't have hit him" – Sansa sighed, feeling the heat of guilt creeping up the back of her neck.

"Well, there are worse sins" – Daenerys's said and Sansa could hear the pain in her voice – "As Queen, I find it difficult to have true friends. Missandei is the only female friend that I've got" – she added after a few seconds of silence.

"My only true friend is a twelve-year-old girl" – Sansa stated.

The Lady of Winterfell's declaration seemed to humor Dany, making her laugh.

"I'd like us to be friends, Sansa" – the Dragon Queen smiled.

A friendship between a Stark and a Targaryen could be a powerful thing.

A friendship between two queens could be a powerful thing _and_ a beautiful thing.

"I'd like that as well" – Sansa said with a matching smile.

Daenerys gave her a gentle squeeze on her arm – a friendly gesture – before walking towards the door.

She paused to look back at Sansa.

"Perhaps you could drag Jon out of his chambers and his brooding mood" – she said – "I'll entertain everyone else in the Great Hall" – she winked, before leaving Sansa's chambers.

As soon as the door closed, Sansa approached her dressing table. She immediately found the hairpin Jon offered her.

Running her fingers through her hair to smooth it, she sat before the mirror and grabbed the shiny hairpin.

When her hair was just the way she wanted it to be she thrust the pin into place, holding a few strands of hair.

Sansa rose from the chair. She smoothed the fabric of her gown and walked towards the door.

* * *

The Lady of Winterfell ran through the long corridor and only stopped when she reached Jon's chambers.

Reaching out to grasp the doorknob, she noticed the slight tremble of her fingers.

 _Breathe, you fool_ – she reminded herself, trying to steady her hand.

Forgetting all formalities, her hand closed around the knob and she opened the door.

She walked through the foyer into the great room. A table with four chairs around it was placed near a window. In another corner, stacked shelves were filled with leather-bound books.

Ghost was curled up on the blanket Jon had spread for him near the window. The direwolf's ears perked up at the sound of someone walking into the room.

Ghost looked at Sansa. With a silent sigh, the direwolf rested his head again on his paws.

Sansa stepped into Jon's bedchamber, and there he stood.

His figure unleashed a flutter of butterflies to circle in her belly.

Jon was sitting on a window seat, reading from a thick tome. He scrubbed a hand over his face.

Sansa stood silently watching him. She could see him rereading the same page over and over again as if he was unable to concentrate on it.

A moment later, Jon threw the book away, standing up.

Sansa's breath caught as he turned his body and the moonlight caught his features.

His thick, dark hair was slightly tousled and she couldn't take her eyes from him. He was so incredibly handsome.

Who was she trying to fool? She was not angry at him. She was – is – in love with him.

Sansa wanted nothing more than to run into his arms.

She had been a completely fool. The beautiful man standing right in front of her didn't leave her; didn't abandon her; didn't marry another. The only thing that he did was ensuring their future and she hit him for it.

Sansa bit her lower lip as guilt surrounded her.

She was a master of control, but somehow, with him, her ability to think clear ceased to exist.

Jon was good and honorable and kind. He wouldn't ignore their kiss. He was the one who initiated it.

She had jumped into conclusions. She had looked at his sweet actions with distrust, when the only thing Jon was trying to do was to make her happy; to keep her safe. He wasn't trying to control her.

Davos's worries about her health were Jon's worries. He sent Bash away because he cared about her; because he didn't want her to leave Winterfell; because he wanted her in his life. He ordered the kitchen staff to make lemon cakes because of her; because he knew her; because he knew how much she loved lemon cakes.

Sansa felt a squeeze in her chest.

Had anyone treated her, aside from her parents, with so much love?

She was so used of being surrounded by liars and traitors that sometimes it was hard to let her guard down; to not jump into conclusions; to not hurt the people she loved.

Her armor had been on for such a long time that sometimes it was easy to forget that she didn't need it anymore, not with Jon.

 _We need to trust each other_ – his voice echoed in her head, making her heart beat faster.

She trusted him.

Gods, he was the only one she trusted and she still managed to create doubts in her mind and heart.

Jealousy really was a powerful thing. She thought that she was immune to Margaery's fake words, but apparently she wasn't. She had allowed her 'friend' to manipulate her; to make her believe in something that it was not real.

She wondered if that had been her plan all along or if Margaery really believed that she could be queen again.

Sansa met Jon's gray eyes then.

She wanted to ask if he was mad at her, apologize, maybe, for the punches (and the distrust), but the words refused to leave her mouth.

Jon was within reach before her once again, and in that moment she felt like she was the luckiest woman on earth.

Her body moved by itself.

Jon's eyes widened. Before his mind could register what she was doing, Sansa's body collided against his.

Jon was taken aback for a split second, before he finally encircled her waist, bringing her closer without even thinking. Almost unconsciously, he tightened his hold around her.

He closed his eyes and moved his right hand so he could slide his fingers through her hair, cradling the back of her head.

He loved her red hair. He liked to think that her hair was a different kind of fire. The sort of fire that was made to be touched and caressed. It didn't burn the skin but it definitely warmed his heart.

A sigh of relief escaped from his lips. Sansa was finally in his arms … and she felt good in his arms, natural. She felt like his – like she was made for him.

Jon held her like he wanted to be with her always.

For a long time, neither of them spoke.

Jon felt her soft laugh against his chest, then a small sob.

Sansa pulled herself away from him, so she could look upon his face.

"I thought you wedded Margaery" – she finally spoke. Her eyes looked bright with unshed tears.

"Gods, no" – Jon laughed softly, smoothing her hair away from her face.

Sansa's heart was hammering.

She loved that sound. She never thought she could miss someone's voice so much, but she did.

His calloused palm felt good against her skin.

Their months apart had felt like an eternity. She missed him so much that her body ached. She craved him with a physical desire.

Her entire life had been a struggle to free herself from the command of people, of men, but with Jon none of that made any difference. She wanted to be his.

"I'm sorry, I'm _so_ sorry for what I said to you… for what I did to you" – Sansa declared – "You did not deserve any of it, Jon" – she explained, resting her hand on his forearm – "I, I was wrong and angry at myself and at you and…" – she stammered – "and I know that I shouldn't but I –" – the words died on her lips as soon as Jon's right hand touched her hairpin.

She watched as a smile emerged on Jon's face.

There were times when Jon looked at her and he wasn't quite certain that she was real; that she was within reach; that she could be his.

Studying her face for a long moment, Jon searched for the right words.

Inside her deep blue eyes he could see her deepest fears; her old scars; the woman who didn't believe that anyone could love her.

 _I'm not a pawn!_ – her words echoed in his head.

She had been used for so many. Joffrey, Cersei, Ramsay, Baelish made her believe that she was just a pawn; that no one would ever love her. She couldn't be more wrong.

He wanted to erase all of her doubts and terrors.

He wanted her to know that he never saw her as pawn, and he never would.

He wanted her to know that, without her, he was sure that all of his strength, courage and happiness would fail him entirely.

He wanted her to know that he loved her.

He pushed her hair aside and nuzzled the back of her neck.

"You're not a pawn" – Jon said, remembering her words – "You're a Queen" – he murmured, his breath warm on her skin – "My Queen" – he smiled.

"Jon…" – Sansa tried to say, but her voice failed her.

She looked at the one man who saw her as more than a pawn and she nearly lost her balance; her knees felt weak.

She let out a watery laugh.

Sansa had always longed for a golden prince, but now, as she looked at Jon, she wished she could go back to the day she left Winterfell and scream at herself that Joffrey was not gold and not a prince… only a monster.

What she had wanted, her prince, had been right under her nose. She had lived with a prince all her life. It just took her a bit longer to see it.

She brushed her fingers against his face, pausing at his lips.

His thick dark hair was tousled. His gray eyes were brimming with tenderness and passion and love. _Love_.

Sansa remembered her talk with Daenerys:

 _I was oblivious to the fact that he was already in love with someone else._

 _Jon is not in love with me._

 _He surely is._

Jon loved her, and she loved Jon.

She loved him and she wanted to tell him so. She wanted to say those words to him, and she knew he would want to hear them, too.

She loved everything about him, from his brooding gray eyes to his unruly hair that was dark as a raven's wing.

She couldn't believe how strongly she felt for him. She hadn't felt this way for anyone before.

His hair was soft and warm between her fingertips as she toyed with it idly, like she used to do with Ghost's fur, and like she once did with Lady's.

She could tell him that. Tell him that she loved him.

Instead, she kissed him, almost knocking him over as she lunged for his lips.

She kissed him like she would die if she didn't.

Jon moaned, leaning forward into her, pulling her to him. His arms wrapped around her waist as her hands trailed up his arms and encircled his neck.

Their bodies seemed to almost sigh with relief at being joined again.

Jon surrounded her with strength, making her feel strong and fearless.

Sansa's tongue plunged into his mouth, deepening the kiss. Her hands lifted to his head and she laced her fingers in his curls.

His mouth matched hers in want, in greed.

Jon could taste the slight hint of sugar from the lemon cakes she insisted she no longer liked. A lie; a beautiful lie that made him smile like a fool. It was one of Sansa's many powers. She made him smile, which he was discovering he didn't do nearly enough of.

Jon's kiss was fierce, but his hands were warm and supporting as they moved across her back.

His mouth dropped below her jaw and his teeth nipped at her throat.

Sansa's moans were like music to his ears. She always excelled at singing the way she excelled at anything she put her mind to. Her moans and whimpers were the most beautiful song he had ever heard.

She took his earlobe between her teeth and gave it a small tug.

Jon moaned loudly. She made him want to howl, in a good way.

His hands tangled in her hair and he kissed her hard.

If Sansa made Jon feel like a wolf, then Jon made Sansa feel like a dragon. When Jon touched her skin, she felt as if there was fire running through her veins, but just like a dragon the fire didn't burn her. It made her feel alive.

Jon kissed her with an intensity that had her toes curling in her shoes. Sansa couldn't help but want his naked skin sliding over hers.

Her free hand curled into the front of his tunic to pull him closer; her fingers stroking his flesh through his tunic, making him groan slightly.

Sansa wanted to touch every part of him.

She bit his neck, unlacing the front of his tunic, as calloused palms moved along the curve of her waist, steadying her.

Jon touched her as only he could, making her heart flutter with anticipation. He seemed to know just what she needed.

Their bodies were close, but not close enough.

"Are you even aware you're undressing me?" – Jon chuckled and Sansa returned to reality – "Not that I'm complaining" – he added.

Sansa pulled back, breathless.

She met his eyes and her insides fluttered, sending curls of heat through her stomach and shivers all the way down her spine.

 _Gods, she wanted him._

She wanted all of him. She would never want anyone else.

She wanted to bury herself in him.

She wanted him more than she'd ever wanted anything in her whole life, but reality intruded nonetheless.

Sansa pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to control her erratic breathing and pounding heart.

"We can't" – she panted heavily, realizing with mild embarrassment that Jon's tunic was still open down the front – "I mean, we can… just not right now" – she tried to explain – "Supper is almost served"

"Can't we skip it?" – Jon immediately asked, leaning in so his breath tickled her face.

Sansa found his words humorous. She bit back a smile and rested her forehead against his.

"They'd only send someone up to get us" – she explained – "Lord Slate, probably"

Jon groaned and Sansa tried to stifle a laugh.

He frowned, all moody and brooding. Ghost approached him for a scratch.

Jon caressed Ghost's fur and Sansa watched his features soften and the tension disappear from his brow.

"You're right" – he finally said, facing reality.

Jon reached for her left hand. He entwined their fingers together, raising their joined hands to his lips and pressing a kiss against her knuckles.

"Allow me to escort you, then" – he said, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, offering her a warm smile.

Sansa loved it when Jon smiled. It was such a rare occurrence.

Reluctantly, she forced her body to move, hating herself for ruining the moment.

She took a step back and closed her eyes for a second.

She wanted to let Jon escort her, but she couldn't. She had already behaved improperly in front of the entire royal party. She needed to act like a lady now.

"You can't" – she said. Jon arched an eyebrow, confused – "There are formalities we have to go through" – she explained – "We're not husband and wife" – she added, softly.

Jon stepped forward, capturing her face in his hands.

"Yet" – he said, like he was completing her sentence, though the barest hint of a blush undermined his confidence. Sansa's cheeks burned with color – "Don't take too long" – he murmured, rubbing his nose against hers in a tender motion.

Sansa chuckled lightly. Jon could be quite charming when he tried, and she couldn't help but think that it was a shame that others didn't see this side like she did.

She pulled away, nodding with a reassuring smile.

"I won't" – she managed to say, looking at the beautiful man in front of her.

Jon walked towards the door and Ghost followed him.

The King in the North opened the door and paused to look back at Sansa. The intensity of his gaze made her stomach twist.

His smile was as intimate as a kiss.

Sansa knew that the life they would build together was going to make all her dreams come true. Looking into Jon's eyes, she suspected that he felt the same way.

She watched him (and Ghost) walking out of the room and put her hand over her chest. Her heart felt like it was ready to bust out of her chest. It was beating so hard she could feel it in her ears.

She sat on his bed and took a deep breath.

She braided her hair in a single thick braid and tied it together with her hair tie. She grabbed the hairpin that looked exactly like a snowflake and put it in the middle of the braid.

She touched the snowflake in her braid and smiled.

Sansa opened the door and pepped outside into the empty hallway. Hurriedly, she left the room and walked as fast as she could. She couldn't take her mind off of Jon.

She silently walked down the stone steps.

She could hear people talking and laughing, and felt her heart pounding inside her chest. She could picture the royal party talking enthusiastically, waiting for her entrance.

She approached the doors of the Great Hall. Standing on each side were two guards holding spears. As Sansa took a step forward, both crossed spears, barring her passage.

Sansa frowned.

They were wearing helmets, which hid their faces. She couldn't see their eyes, yet she was certain they were staring at her.

 _Why were they wearing helmets?_ _The guards posted there never wore helmets._

Sansa gulped, feeling the worry growing in her body. Something was wrong.

She tensed; her whole body went rigid.

She was about to open her mouth when someone grabbed her from behind. Sansa couldn't see the person's face, but somehow she knew it was a man.

He placed a scented cloth over her nose and mouth, cutting off her air. The scream rising out of her disappeared in the back of her throat.

She looked at the two guards standing right in front of her. She begged with her eyes for help, but they didn't move a muscle.

She struggled but she couldn't break free unless the man allowed it.

The cloth over her nose was covered with a foul-smelling liquid. Her eyes widened as she realized the intruder was trying to drug her into unconsciousness.

The backs of her eyes stung; tears were threatening.

 _No, no, no, no_ – Sansa screamed in her mind, trying to keep her eyes open.

A feeling of extreme dizziness invaded her body.

She looked at the doors in front of her, wishing they could open.

She tried to remember what Jon taught her.

 _If a man comes at you, hit him in the throat._

It was useless. Her back was against the man's chest. She couldn't hit him in the throat. She didn't know what to do if a man grabbed her from behind.

 _Three quick jabs to the stomach, one to the throat._

One lesson didn't make her a fighter. Jon only taught her the basics.

Sansa wanted to cry. The room around her was blurring. Waves of dizziness washed over her.

Slowly, darkness crept over her.

As soon as her eyes closed, something jangled faintly at her feet – a snowflake dropping onto the stone.

* * *

 **You better prepare your heart for the next chapters (don't hate me!)**

 **Sound off your thoughts and theories in the box below, please, I love reading them!**

 **Love you guys! (:**


	11. Dejection

**This quote is from my favorite author: Fernando Pessoa.**

 **He was a Portuguese poet and a prolific writer, and not only under his own name, for he dreamed up imaginary figures** **that** **have their own physiques, biographies and writing styles, but he didn't call them pseudonym. He called them heteronyms.**

 **So, the literary concept of heteronym was invented by him. Pseudonymous writing is not rare in literature, but 'Heteronyms' are something different. For each of these imaginary figures, Pessoa conceived a highly distinctive poetic technique, a complex biography and a context of literary influence and polemics.**

 **You should really check it out. His writing is astonishing.**

 **(Sorry for my rambling).**

 **Happy reading!**

* * *

 _I know nothing and my heart aches_ ― Fernando Pessoa

* * *

The Great Hall of Winterfell was bright with light of at least a hundred candles, and the voices of more than two hundred people rose and fell beneath the gentle melody of the music played by the minstrel.

The high table sat raised up on a dais of wood.

From his place, Jon surveyed the hall. There were moments like now when he still couldn't quite believe how much his life had changed. The men who had always addressed him by name, or as ' _bastard_ ' or ' _snow_ ', now called him ' _Your Grace_ ', bowed their heads when he approached, rose when he entered the room and did not seat until he gave permission. Jon would never get used to it.

Servants scurried between the tightly packed benches and tables, carrying trays filled with steaming food and rolling barrels filled with ale and wine.

Jon scanned the gray walls. He noticed the way the torches that hung in metal rings changed the dark hall, bathing the room in a warm and reddish glow.

The Great Hall was filled with people (mostly southern lords) and noise.

Jon looked at the seat to his right – Sansa's seat. It was empty.

 _She was supposed to be here by now._

Ghost sprawled comfortably at his feet.

Daenerys was sat to his left, talking with some northern lords that had approached the high table. Jon barely listened to them, only contributing with a nod, every time Dany touched his arm. Luckily for him, the northerners were too mesmerized by the Dragon Queen to even notice his lack of response.

Jon looked at the doors of the Great Hall, wishing they could open, so he could see Sansa stepping into the room, but the doors remained closed.

 _Why was she taking so long?_

A bad feeling started blooming across his stomach, but he didn't want to give into it.

Worry wasn't going to make Sansa walk through the doors.

Jon caressed Ghost's fur, trying to erase his own jitters.

His thoughts traveled and the image of Sansa invaded his mind. Flashes of their previous moment together flitted through his mind's eyes, making him smile.

Jon was so lost in his thoughts that he almost jumped from his chair when Daenerys touched his arm, again.

He looked up from his plate, ready to nod and agree with whatever they were talking about, but Ser Davos's look of concern made him tense. The man was accompanied by three guards with matching looks – funeral looks.

"Your Graces" – Ser Davos bowed his head.

Daenerys smiled briefly. Jon did not.

He met Ser Davos's eyes. The look on his face spoke volumes. Something was wrong.

Alarms began shrieking in the back of Jon's head.

"What is it?" – he managed to ask; his mouth felt dry.

Ser Davos gave the men a discrete nod. One of them took a step forward and bowed his head before speaking.

"Two of our men were found dead, Your Grace" – he stated – "Their throats were slit" – he added.

Daenerys looked at Jon. She had never seen a living man so pale in her entire life.

Before any words could leave her mouth, Jon rose from his chair abruptly.

His feet started moving before his brain even knew what was happening.

Jon rushed past the guards. Daenerys, following behind him, had to redouble her pace in order to keep up with him.

Even before he passed through the doors, Jon felt the jangling sense that something dreadful was about to happen.

The people on the benches stopped their conversations as they passed, and by the time they had reached the doors of the Great Hall, the room was silent.

Silently, as he always did, Ghost disappeared from their sight.

The guard's words echoed in Jon's head.

His lungs hurt as the image of Sansa invaded his mind.

 _She was supposed to be here by now._

Jon tried hard to cling to some hope, but scenarios, each one more twisted than the last, flitted through his brain.

He couldn't help but think that the guards that were slaughtered had been only a collateral damage. They were not the target. Killing them was just a mean to an end.

A bad feeling inside him grew stronger.

Jon had been in the battlefield. He had fought wars. He knew how easy it was to buy someone's services. Not all men knew the meaning of the word _honor_.

Winterfell's gates could prevent armies from invading the castle, but they couldn't prevent treachery and conspiracy from invading people's mind.

 _She was supposed to be here by now._

He felt himself growing weaker. He could feel the world – his world – going darker, and it became harder and harder to breathe.

As soon as Jon stepped out of the Great Hall, he saw something glittering at his feet and froze in horror. All his hopes concerning Sansa's safety fled as he looked at the hairpin – the snowflake made of Dragonglass and covered by silver that he had ordered from a jeweler.

He remembered the day he had offered it to Sansa:

" _Jon…" – she had said – "You shouldn't have… It's not even my nameday"_

His chest knotted with pain.

Biting his lip hard, Jon bent to grab the shiny hairpin. It felt cold on his hand, cold as winter.

Dany stepped forward to touch Jon's shoulder, but he shrugged her touch off as if it stung.

He couldn't stop looking at the hairpin – the evidence that Sansa had been there and that something had happened.

Questions stormed his mind. His breathing came hard and sharp.

He couldn't lose her. Even the thought of it killed him.

Jon stormed through the halls of Winterfell, servants darting out of his way as his cloak swung out behind him.

 _She was supposed to be here by now._

Two guards were killed. Assassins managed to enter the castle.

It didn't matter; not now. He could think of only one thing: Sansa.

Jon was breathless as he approached the door of his chambers.

Half in dread, half in hope, he crossed the room.

He scanned his chambers, as he walked, looking anxiously for the woman who meant so much to him.

"Sansa" – Jon heard his own voice as it emerged from his throat as if it were a stranger's.

He called out again thinking maybe she just didn't hear him.

He called a third time. Then a fourth.

Still no answer.

Jon could feel the worry and panic growing in his body.

The mere thought of his suspicious being confirmed made him feel sick.

This was a nightmare.

Unconsciously, Jon stepped out of his chambers. He felt like the walls were closing in on him.

The tension made him gasp for breath.

He found himself in front of Sansa's chambers, but before his right hand could reach the iron handle of the door Brienne's figure appeared right in front of his eyes.

Sansa's loyal servant tried to disguise her distress, and failed.

"She's not in her chambers" – Brienne stated, worry etched in her gaze – "Someone took her" – she said the words that Jon didn't want to hear.

His world stopped.

Brienne continued to talk but Jon barely heard her. He could feel the veins popping out on his temples and the blood rushing to his head.

 _Someone took her._

Jon's mind whirled as it tried to deny what he knew to be true.

A wave of fear washed over him, leaving the King in the North light-headed. He didn't even notice the noise of people approaching.

Something was off. Very off.

Whoever kidnapped Sansa knew that she would not be with him; that she wouldn't have guards with her; that she would make her way to the Great Hall alone. But how? How did they know that? How did the assassins manage to know that?

Besides, wouldn't be easier to kidnap Sansa before he returned home?

His gut was screaming at him, telling him that something was off about all of this. This was not a normal attack. There was something else to it, something more.

The royal party had just arrived. Whoever kidnaped Sansa couldn't have had something in the works already. Unless they'd had. Unless this had been an inside job.

Sansa had been the target, Jon knew that without a doubt.

"The next hours are crucial" – Ser Davos said – "Every minute that passes makes their capture less likely"

"They could be miles away by now" – Brienne stated.

Jon felt as though his soul was being stripped from him.

Fear had blossomed into full-blown terror.

The ground shifted slightly beneath his feet.

"It doesn't matter where they are" – Jon's breath stuck in his throat; the people around him eyed him warily – "I will hunt them to the ends of the earth" – fear made his voice crack.

 _I'll find her_ – he added to himself.

He needed to find her. He couldn't live without her. He wouldn't live without her.

"We need to seal off all the roads" – Ser Davos said, clearing his throat – "And we need to question all people in the castle" – he explained – "Guards were killed and …" – he trailed off, glancing at a pale Jon; Ser Davos didn't say ' _they kidnaped Lady Sansa'_ , but it was there.

The King in the North felt a sharp pain in his chest. Every word he heard was a knife.

"Use any means necessary" – Daenerys spoke – "We need to know who did this and how they got in"

Jon started to get dizzy and swayed a bit, but caught himself on the nearest wall.

His stomach tightened the moment he realized that he was leaning against the same wall where he had kissed Sansa for the first time.

He had kissed her there, in this corridor, against the stone wall, the night of the spring feast. The memory of it had come to him, often enough since. Now it was torture.

The sound of voices mingled with his own thoughts.

"We should send a patrol to search the woods"

"It's dark. We won't find any tracks"

"We'll have a hard time following them in the dark"

"Most men here are southerners. They don't know these woods"

"We'll conduct a more thorough search after daybreak"

"Your Grace, I would propose that we start searching the woods …"

Jon did not reply; there was no time for it.

He raced out of the room, feeling sick to his stomach.

He needed to do something. He needed to find her.

Jon hit the stables doors at a dead run.

The scent of horses, manure and grasses invaded his nose.

The shape of Longclaw's hilt beneath his fingers comforting and familiar in a world that seemed to shift and change around him like the landscape of a dream.

He made his way towards the nearest horse that stood eating a pile of hay.

Jon swung himself up onto the animal.

A white horse looked at him sorrowfully – Sansa's horse. Jon blinked away the pinpricks of tears welling up in his eyes and took a deep breath.

Ser Davos, Brienne and at least ten men entered the stables, ready to follow their king, but Jon barely acknowledged their presence.

He dug his heels into the horse's sides.

In a moment, horse and rider were out of sight.

* * *

The night sky was overcast; heavy clouds obscuring the moon.

The woods were a dense collection of old birches and tall pines.

Jon's breath passed his lips in frozen clouds.

The occasional gust of wind rustled the birch leaves and caused the branches to creak.

He remembered the way Ned Stark taught him how to find snapped twigs and imprints in the soil.

With each step he took, he scanned the ground, hoping to see something to let him know about Sansa's whereabouts.

Jon walked by a trail of hoof prints. At times the tracks disappeared and it was difficult to see clearly as the tree tops hardly allowed any light to fall on the forest floor.

A harsh wind gusted forth from the darkness. Jon's teeth were chattering.

He replayed over and over in his mind the events of the night.

His stomach twisted.

This was his fault. He shouldn't have left her alone in his room.

He should have escorted her. They should have walked into the Great Hall _together_.

Sansa was in danger because of him. He failed her.

Jon felt a sharp pain in his chest, as if he had been stabbed. No, it was worse than being stabbed. He had been stabbed to death and this was worse. It was worse than death, because this time he knew that not even the Red Woman could bring him back to life… only Sansa could.

He caught his ragged breath.

He was doomed to lose his family.

First it had been his mother.

People used to say that she was beautiful and willful and dead before her time.

 _Did she die because of him? Did he fail her?_

Then it was his father/uncle. A man who lied to the entire world to protect him, to ensure he had a future.

 _If I don't watch over you, Father's ghost will come back and murder me_ – words from the past invaded his mind.

Jon felt a lump in his throat.

He had failed his father/uncle. Sansa was in danger because of him. Whoever kidnapped her got the idea that threatening her was a good way to get to him, to the king.

Jon stared down at his hands. They had begun to shake uncontrollably.

Robb.

Last time he saw him, he was in the courtyard at Winterfell. He still remembered his words: _Next time I see you, you'll be all in black._

Jon was jealous of Robb his whole life. He wanted his father/uncle to look at him the same way he looked at Robb. He wanted to hate him, but he never could.

He would have followed him to the ends of the earth.

He failed him too. He should have abandoned the Night's Watch and join Robb's cause. If he had done that maybe Robb would still be alive.

Rickon.

His little's brother death still haunted his mind at night. Ramsay Bolton was dead, but the man still bested him.

Rickon was supposed to be alive. Jon should have saved him, but he failed.

He failed him. He wasn't fast enough.

Bran.

He was alive, but he would probably never see him again.

He failed him. He should have made him stay. Winterfell was his home.

Arya.

His heart ached. He missed her more than he'd thought possible.

She collected scabs as other girls collected dolls, and would say anything that came into her head. She had skinny legs and strong opinions. She was a trial and she was perfect.

He failed her. He should have abandoned the Night's Watch and rescue her from King's Landing.

Ygritte.

He remembered her hair kissed by fire and how she died in his arms.

 _Do you remember the cave? We should have stayed in the cave –_ she had said.

 _We'll go back there_ – he told her. A lie.

He failed her. They didn't go back there.

Sansa.

The air felt like fire in Jon's lungs, as if he were being burned to death from inside out. He felt like he was being suffocated.

Jon remembered the last time a Targaryen courted a Stark.

He had learned nothing from history. He could have the Stark face, but he was not a Stark. He was a Targaryen. He was his father's son; the only difference was that this time the Stark girl had been taken by another.

The irony. Jon was Rhaegar's son, but he was now playing Robert Baratheon's role… and the worst part was that he knew how the story ended: no one won the war; everyone lost.

Jon's heart thundered in his chest.

He couldn't lose Sansa.

She was his strength. The person he lived for. He truly believed that the reason the Red Woman brought him back to life was because he was destined to meet Sansa again; because they were meant to be together, because he was hers and she was his.

And now she was gone.

He was alone again.

There was only emptiness, as there had been before her. As there always would be.

* * *

Hours later, Jon grabbed a torch from the wall, feeling his body shivering violently.

He had cuts on his hands and arms from the shrubs and branches of trees, but he had not slowed down.

His body moved by itself as he struggled to calm the storm of emotions raging within him.

The castle had never been so quiet or felt so cold, and Jon was sure that he had never felt so alone.

He swallowed the hard lump that had formed in his throat, realizing where he'd run to.

Jon studied the door for a long time before finally pushing it open and stepping inside.

The faint torch didn't penetrate very far into the room, but Jon didn't need the light. He knew the layout of the room intimately.

He walked through the foyer into the great room, looking at the slate fireplace and confortable furniture, so familiar it made his heart ache.

The windows were open; gauzy white curtains blew in the breeze like restless ghosts.

Jon gulped.

Everywhere he looked he could see her.

Everywhere he looked he could see Sansa's face. Sometimes smiling, sometimes sulky, but always beautiful and full of life.

He could see her sat at the dressing table, combing her hair.

He could see her opening her closet and searching for the perfect gown.

He could see her sat at the table in the corner of the room, playing cyvasse and eating lemon cakes.

He could see her by the fire, reading a book or plying her needle.

His body started trembling.

He saw a tunic over the back of an old chair and his legs almost gave away. She was making a tunic for him.

Jon shut his eyes; his emotions getting the best of him.

He snuffled out the torch and placed it on the nightstand before climbing onto the bed and curling on top of the furs.

The memory of a familiar voice invaded his mind.

 _You know nothing, Jon Snow._

Ygritte was right.

He knew nothing. He felt powerless, lost. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know how to act. He didn't know how to lead. He didn't know how to be a king.

He didn't know how to find the woman he loved.

The man who won wars and defeated death no longer existed.

The King in the North. Jon Targaryen. The prince that was promised. Rhaegar's heir. He was no longer any of those things.

He was only Jon Snow… and Jon Snow knew nothing.

Alone in his misery, he buried his face in the pillows, childishly hoping Sansa's scent still lingered. It did.

* * *

Her eyelids felt as if they had been sewed shut. She opened them slowly and blinked. Her mind whirled with confusion.

A quick image of a strong hand placing a scented cloth over her mouth and nose flashed through her mind and she shuddered.

Sansa could feel the sweat that drenched her hair and pasted her gown to her back.

Painfully she hauled herself into a sitting position. Her head ached.

She glanced around and adjusted her eyes to the surroundings.

Sansa realized that she was inside a large tent. She was tucked into a sleeping pallet.

The tent was all of golden silk. The sparse room was lit by a candle on an overturned crate.

Sansa felt a wave of panic. She was no longer in Winterfell.

 _Where am I?_ – she wondered, trying to control her breathing.

She had no memory of getting there. She tried to force her brain to remember but it was useless.

She took a long, deep breath and released it slowly.

A sudden, stabbing pain made Sansa clutch at her stomach. She felt like she hadn't eaten anything in days.

 _What's happening?_

She felt dizzy as she tried to understand what was happening. Her temples pounded harder and faster with every heartbeat.

 _Jon. She was supposed to be with Jon._

The need to run, escape, overtook her and gave her the strength to jump out of the sleeping pallet.

She needed to return home, to Jon.

Sansa searched the tent frantically, looking for an exit, but before she could find it a familiar voice spoke, raising the short hairs along the nape of her neck.

"Cat" – he said.

* * *

 **So much angst, I know. Please don't hate me!**

 **It will get better… eventually.**

 **I love reading your comments. Questions and theories are always welcome, so please don't be shy!**


	12. Grave News

**Dark Jon is coming to play!**

* * *

 _The guilty one is not he who commits the sin, but the one who causes the darkness_ ― Victor Hugo

* * *

The tent was very silent.

Sansa was too shocked to move.

Lord Baelish smiled pleasantly, regarding her calmly.

He looked just like she remembered – a man with dark hair going gray at his temples, and eyes that didn't smile when his mouth did.

"You look just like her" – his smile was twisted – "My cat…"

 _She was never yours_ – Sansa wanted to say, but her mouth remained closed; her throat felt tight.

She had prayed to all the Gods, so she would not see him again. Apparently, they didn't listen to her.

Distance and time didn't make Lord Baelish forget about her.

Sansa knew that he never forgave her for choosing Jon over him. He didn't understand that there was never a choice to make.

Lord Baelish had tried to turn her against Jon, but failed. He had offered her empty promises and his dreams. Sansa only wanted him gone from her home and from her mind, but life had other plans.

Lord Baelish moved forward and she shrank back. She wanted to scream for help, but, somehow, she knew it would be useless.

She wished he was dead, so she could be free.

Her stomach contracted in terror as she met his eyes.

She felt like a puppet again. She could actually feel Lord Baelish pulling the strings and trying to turn her into something that she was not. He was trying to turn her into someone who was long dead – Catelyn Tully. He was trying to rewrite history.

Sansa felt an ache swimming down from her head to her stomach. Spears of pain shot through her, sharp enough to make her gasp.

"You haven't eaten anything in three days" – Lord Baelish pointed out – "That's probably why you feel sick"

Sansa's heart beat erratically. Faster and faster it pounded, as if to burst from her ribcage. Her breathing grew heavier and heavier.

"Three days …" – Sansa's voice scratched in her throat.

The breath caught in her throat and the taste of bile grew stronger.

She was starting to get dizzy as if her brain couldn't process the information that Lord Baelish was throwing at her.

She pressed her hands to her temples and closed her eyes.

 _Three days… She had been asleep for three days._

She couldn't understand a single thing that was happening.

 _How could she have been asleep for three days? She was supposed to be in Winterfell. She was supposed to be in the Great Hall, with Jon._

Sansa could hear her own heart beating as her thoughts traveled and she remembered the exact moment when a man grabbed her from behind and placed a scented cloth over her nose and mouth.

The Lady of Winterfell felt a stabbing pain in her stomach and a strange light-headedness.

Lord Baelish reached for her, but Sansa leaned away from his touch.

She stumbled on her skirts; her back hit a chair.

A bad feeling inside Sansa grew stronger as she met Baelish's eyes.

"The guards wearing helmets …" – she forced the words to get out of her mouth – "They were not from Winterfell, were they? Did you send them?"

She needed to know. Deep down she already knew, but she needed to hear him saying it.

Lord Baelish smiled a terrible smile. That was his answer.

The world tilted and Sansa felt her eyes stinging the way they did when she tried to hold tears back for too long.

A trembling had started in her fingers, so pronounced that she knitted her hands together tightly to try to stop them from shaking.

Suddenly, someone pushed back the flap of the tent.

A servant strode across the room; Sansa eyed him warily.

The man was carrying a jug of wine.

The Lady of Winterfell's eyes followed the man putting the jug down on a big table.

Sansa blinked. She hadn't noticed the table until now.

 _What's happening?_ – she wondered.

She took a deep breath trying to control her breathing that was beginning to escalate.

Sansa examined the wealth displayed on the table. There were several silver goblets and plates, all stamped with Baelish's personal sigil – a black mockingbird.

She gulped as she started to realize what was happening.

A chill ran down her spine.

He had planned her abduction methodically. This was not an impulsive action. All evidences indicated that he knew exactly what he was doing.

 _How long had he been planning this?_

She looked at the stacks of food set out in front of her and her stomach grumbled.

There was bread, a fruit bowl full of apples and blood oranges, boiled goose eggs, lots of bacon, ham, olives and rabbit stew.

Lord Baelish took his seat at the head of the table and motioned for Sansa to seat at his side.

Sansa didn't want to sit, but she knew that any insubordination on her part would only make things worse for her. She bit the inside of her cheek and, obediently, she sat.

She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back in her chair.

Petyr fed Sansa some food at the table.

"Eat. Food always makes me feel better" – he said; Sansa didn't move a muscle – "Would you prefer some chicken?" – he asked; Sansa remained in silence – "You must eat. You're fading away" – he insisted.

"I do not know what cool trick you're playing, but I will not be broken by you" – Sansa spoke, lifting her chin.

"Broken? I thought this would be nice" – he laughed shortly – "At least you're not shackled" – he added, after drinking some of his wine.

"You expect me to be grateful?" – Sansa snapped – "For me to fall into your arms expressing my undying gratitude?"

She hated him. She hated him more than she thought it possible to hate anyone.

He was sick.

 _How could he have done this to her? What was he trying to accomplish?_

"Anything you want you can have" – he said, calmly – "I'll give it to you" – he added.

An hysterical laugh rose and die in her throat. _By the Gods, she hated him._

"I want nothing from you!" – she retorted, pushing back her chair, before standing up.

Why couldn't he understand that she only felt revulsion for him? Why couldn't he understand that she despised him?

She was tired of his games.

Petyr Baelish was a ruthless manipulator. He was a cold sociopath with an utter ambition. The man had no real loyalty or genuine affection for anyone. His love for her was not love. It was an obsession; a disease.

He looked at her, and all he could see was Catelyn Tully. He didn't see Sansa; he was incapable of seeing her as something more than a mirror of her mother.

 _Be brave_ – Sansa told herself – _Be brave, like a lady in a song._

"Where are we?" – she demanded to know – "How far are we from Winterfell?"

"You're asking the wrong questions" – Petyr Baelish stated.

"Where are we?" – Sansa insisted.

"Moat Cailin" – he said.

 _Moat Cailin_. Sansa mentally estimated the distance between Winterfell and Moat Cailin.

She tried to remember Maester Luwin's lessons about Moat Cailin.

According to Maester Luwin, and all the books she had read, Moat Cailin was one of the North's most important strongholds, though much of it now stood in ruins. It was located on the northern edge of the great swamp known as the Neck – the key to any assault on the North.

Sansa knew that it would take them at least five days to travel from Winterfell to Moat Cailin, but she also knew that a good rider might be able to get 200 miles per day out of the best horses, and Lord Baelish definitely had access to the best horses.

The confirmation that she was at least three days away from home brought a wave of nausea to the pit of her stomach.

Moat Cailin was an effective natural choke which had protected the North from southron invasion for thousands of years. The only way for invaders to effectively bypass Moat Cailin was to win the allegiance of House Reed.

Sansa felt her heart beat against her ribcage as Howland Reed's image invaded her mind. He was one of her father's closest friends and fought alongside him in many conflicts during Robert's Rebellion.

House Reed had strong ties to House Stark. Howland Reed and his daughter had accompanied Bran to Winterfell, so they could reveal Jon's true parentage.

The Reeds would never aid southerners. They were loyal subjects, which meant that they would never help Little Finger keeping her hostage.

Sansa's heart beat frantically hard, and a sickening fear clawed at her insides.

 _Did Lord Baelish order their death?_

The realization that the man in front of her could have killed innocent people made nausea wash over her once more.

She tried to swallow and realized her throat hurt.

She was helpless, like the thirteen-year-old version of herself, prisoner in King's Landing.

Sansa tried desperately to find her voice and to cling to some hope.

This could not be the end. This _would not_ be the end. She was meant to have a future with Jon.

 _Jon_ – her heart ached.

She tried hard to hold on to the memory of his voice, his warm hands, his gentle eyes, his soft hair, his rare smiles… She had to cling to that. She had to believe that she would see him again.

"Soon, they will be coming to rescue me and you don't have enough men to withstand them. You can't hope to defeat them" – Sansa had to force her voice to remain steady, otherwise it would betray her by shattering into a hundred pieces – "These men you bought, they are brutal men who kill and die for pay, but they won't be enough against a large force; against dragons"

"That may not be so…" – Baelish smiled.

Sansa's lips trembled, but she kept her eyes on his.

"How many men do you have?" – she asked – "The Knights of the Vale?"

"You continue to ask the wrong questions" – Lord Baelish said – "What you must understand is that much was planned so that the Targaryen lineage would cease to exist" – he explained, noticing the way Sansa's eyes widened – "The planning had begun even before the Great War. I carried it forward, knowing that in doing so I was taking one step closer to my picture" – he continued to say; Sansa knew what his picture was: Baelish on the Iron Throne and her by his side – "But the plan changed" – he added – "Because your feelings got in the way"

Sansa's stomach lurched.

She gulped, suddenly feeling vulnerable as his gaze fell on her. She knew that look in his eyes.

"Did you really think I wouldn't find out?" – his eyes sparkled with malevolence – "How quickly you have grown to love _him_ " – he commented, pausing in the middle of lifting his wine glass; he set it back down and stared at her – "I'll soon train you out of that"

Sansa opened her mouth to speak and found herself momentarily speechless. She closed it, tried again, but no words came out of it.

She felt a weight on her chest. Her body started trembling.

Lord Baelish's words struck her cold. He _knew_. He knew everything.

 _How quickly you have grown to love him –_ his cold voice echoed in her head.

He knew the depths of her feelings and she felt as if she were dying.

Sansa blinked away the pinpricks of tears welling up in her eyes and took a deep breath.

"Too stunned for words?" – Lord Baelish stepped around the chair toward her; a smirk on his face.

Sansa edged farther behind the safety of the chair, feeling her knees trembling. She could feel the blood draining from her face.

Baelish stroked his thumb along her jawline, and Sansa suppressed a shudder at his touch; her lips curled in disgust.

"You're practically her" – he murmured.

A wicked smile twisted across his face.

Sansa felt the burn of tears.

 _Wolves never cry_ – she reminded herself.

Her brain was her best defense. She couldn't let his mind games control her. She was wolf, and she would not be afraid.

For a split second, she considered hitting him, like Jon taught her, but she changed her mind as a pair of guards entered in the tent.

The sound of footsteps caught Lord Baelish's attention and his hand left her face.

Still smiling, he drew back and walked out of the tent; one of the guards didn't, and Sansa felt the weight of his eyes on her.

She closed her eyes and willed herself to calm down.

Slowly, the events of her time alone with Jon started trickling back into her head.

 _You're not a pawn_ – Jon had told her.

She remembered the feeling of his soft and warm hair between her fingers.

She remembered the intensity of his kisses that had her toes curling in her shoes.

 _You're a Queen_ – he murmured, his breath warm on her skin.

She remembered the way his calloused palms moved along the curve of her waist, touching her as only he could, and making her heart flutter with anticipation.

She remembered the moment Jon entwined their fingers together and pressed a kiss against her knuckles.

She remembered the way he rubbed his nose against hers in a tender motion.

 _My Queen_ – he smiled.

Sansa felt an ache in her chest at the memory of that night. The present was such a stark contrast to then and she shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.

She forced her brain to understand all that was happening, and failed.

Questions stormed her mind. She didn't understand Lord Baelish's plan.

 _Was he trying to repeat history? Was he trying to make a Targaryen fight to the death for a Stark?_

It didn't make any sense. Petyr Baelish didn't have enough men to win a war. He could have bought mercenaries, but that wasn't enough against Daenerys and Jon's army.

Sansa bit her lower lip. She was missing something.

Baelish wouldn't risk his life for her. He might have developed a sick obsession with her, but he was not a fool. He was selfish. He only cared about himself – about his picture.

He said that he was planning to end the Targaryen lineage, but Sansa knew that he didn't have the means necessary to carry the plan forward… For the plan to work he would need help.

Sansa went suddenly cold all over. A bad feeling inside her grew stronger.

She looked at the guard and chills raced up her back and over her arms.

She was once more a prisoner. She was once more a pawn. She was once more alone.

* * *

Knights, servants and lords were on the trail, following tracks. Most men were southerners and they didn't know the North. They didn't know the roads, the woods or the villages. They were useless.

Whoever kidnaped Sansa knew that the Northern Houses had left Winterfell almost three moons ago.

Whoever kidnaped Sansa knew that Winterfell would be filled with southern men – men that didn't know the lands; men that would only slow down the searching.

Whoever kidnaped Sansa had chosen the perfect time to attack. Everything would be different if the Northern Houses were still present.

Jon was attempting to follow the tracks, walking his horse ahead of the group.

"It's getting too dark" – one man said.

"We'll keep heading east" – Jon said, cutting away at the branches in the forest.

Accidentally, he ripped his cloak on the thorns, leaving a piece behind.

Ser Davos looked at him with worry. The King in the North looked completely lost. He didn't sleep; he didn't eat; he barely spoke, and the men had to almost drag him out of the woods every time the sun started to fade, and the King insisted on staying in the forest. The nights in the North were cold. Not even his Targaryen blood and the warm furs would be enough to keep him alive.

Ser Davos's thoughts travelled and he remembered the first day after Sansa's disappearance: people were interrogated. On the second day, the dungeons started filling up.

Jon was desperate to know Sansa's location and who had taken her. He needed to know how the assassins managed to enter the castle; he needed to know if it had been an inside job.

Jon had tried to keep his composure, but failed. The lack of answers awoke the dragon that lived within him.

Ser Davos could still remember the way Jon unsheathed Longclaw and blood began to drip down the prisoners's arms. Howls of pain echoed through the dungeons for several hours as Jon made deep cuts into the men's flesh.

 _The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword._

Flashes of the King in the North plunging Longclaw into the men's palms, and twisting the blade, flitted through his mind's eyes.

Jon had purposely made men scream and bleed. He had tortured men who were chained.

Davos feared that the King was slowly losing his mind.

"We have lost the trail" – a knight of the Kingsguard spoke, interrupting Davos's thoughts.

"Then we'll retrace the tracks!" – Jon said, riding away from the group – "Don't stop!" – he roared.

As the hours passed, the men felt more and more wearied. Their clothes were wet with mud, and the prick of branches dug into their skin.

The men shivered as a light rain began to fall and quickly soaked through their clothing.

The horses became fatigued.

Jon walked over to a piece of red cloth.

He looked at his cloak and clenched his jaw.

His cloak was ripped. The piece of red cloth was his.

He angrily picked up his sword and threw it in to the ground

"We have gone around in a circle…" – Jon muttered – "We have wasted an entire day!" – he growled.

He felt like an amateur. He couldn't even find the trail. _Pathetic._

Jon sunk to the ground looking defeated. He felt physically and mentally exhausted.

"Your Grace…" – Ser Davos approached him.

"She can't be far …" – Jon tried to sound confident, but his voice broke.

He knew that his words were a lie. They knew it was a lie. Sansa had been gone for three days. She could be miles away by now.

Jon was desperate. He didn't know what to do; how to follow her; how to find her. It was like she had vanished into thin air.

He rose from the ground; his knees felt weak.

"I know…" – Ser Davos said – "But we have to work together" – he added – "We need to return. In the morning we'll pick up the trail again"

"If I stayed with her…" – Jon tried to say as guilt unfurled in his chest.

It killed him to think that he could have prevented all that was happening. It made him lose his appetite and his sleep.

 _If I stayed with her_ – the words kept following him; the guilt hanging over him like a leaden cloud.

He failed her.

"You cannot blame yourself" – Ser Davos stated, putting a hand over Jon's shoulder – "We'll find her"

* * *

Jon was in his solar. He was prepared to spend another sleepless night, staring at maps and letters. There was no way he would accept that they were out of options. It couldn't even form as a possibility in his mind. There had to be a way to find her – he simply needed to see it. He couldn't lose his mind.

He looked around the room, trying to find Ghost, but the direwolf was nowhere to be seen.

Jon knew that Ghost was looking for Sansa, and somehow that made him feel a little bit more hopeful.

He had summoned all the Northern Houses. Many had already answered his missives and were making the journey to Winterfell.

Jon needed the northerners close. He needed them to patrol the woods and villages. The royal party didn't know the lands, like they did.

They had already wasted too much time. They couldn't afford to lose more. Every day that passed was a day farther from Sansa.

He ran his hands over his face, controlling his thoughts.

A memory invaded his mind:

 _A year earlier._

 _His feet carried him blindly through the halls of Winterfell until he found himself outside on the battlements._

 _Snow fell lazily down on him, sprinkling white flakes in his dark curls._

 _The North was by far the largest of the Seven Kingdoms. Cold and damp, that was how the southerners saw the North, but without the cold, a man could not appreciate the fire in his hearth._

 _Was that how he had fallen in love with her? By enduring her coldness first, and then finding the fire that lived, not only in her hair, but also in her body and soul?_

 _He was gazing out at his childhood home and he was thinking about her. He knew he shouldn't, but she was a constant in his mind (and heart)._

 _Jon thought he would never feel anything ever again after his resurrection. He didn't want to feel anything ever again, but something changed when he saw her standing in the yard of Castle Black. It was not love, but it was something, the beginning of something ... a warmth, a spark, a flame._

 _Ever since that day, he felt the need to seek her out. He had the urge to lean into her to count the twelve freckles sprinkled across her nose; to smell the sweet scent of her hair… Every kiss placed on her forehead was pleasure and torture._

 _No one could make him laugh and smile as she did. No one could comfort him as she did. No one could make him dream of a future as she did. No one could make his heart beat faster with a look or a touch as she did._

 _Jon did not know when these thoughts and feelings for Sansa developed into something more – into love. Castle Black? Bear Island? Deepwood Motte? Hornwood? White Harbor? Last Hearth? Winterfell?_

 _The wind had picked up and the snow began to fall more heavily._

 _He sensed Ghost beside him. His constant in a very unsteady life._

 _He caressed Ghost's fur and the direwolf licked his hand._

 _Jon closed his eyes. He knew what he was feeling and he knew it was depraved._

 _By the Gods, Sansa used to be his sister!_

 _But she's your cousin now – a wicked voice whispered; a pitiful excuse._

 _Sansa could be his cousin, but the self-incrimination grew stronger every day, because he knew that his feelings for her started before the truth about his parentage was revealed._

 _Jon tried to hide it the best way he could, but he couldn't simply kill his feelings or his thoughts._

 _Every time they were together, he schooled his features into their usual sullen lines so she wouldn't see how happy he was to see her… but he didn't know if he would be able to continue with this charade for much longer. He didn't want to continue with this charade._

 _Jon shook his head._

 _The charade must continue – he said to himself. Sansa couldn't know about his feelings._

 _Their song was not a song of fire and ice. Their song was not a song. Sansa would never love him, and he would never love anyone but her._

" _There you are!" – her sweet voice interrupted his thoughts._

 _His heart thundered in his chest, and he forced his features to remain expressionless._

Jon's mind was racing. His heart was pounding and he was starting to panic.

He regretted that he had wasted so much time fretting about Sansa not returning his feelings.

 _What if he didn't see her again? What if he lost her before he had the chance to tell her exactly how he felt?_

He felt like he had been a fool.

 _There you are! –_ he could still hear her voice; how he wished he could hear her saying those words again.

A realization made his gut twist painfully.

Sansa had found him in Castle Black. She had run away from Winterfell (from Ramsay), and she'd travel for miles to find him.

She always found him, but he never found her.

His chest tightened.

 _What if he didn't find her? What if he was doomed to fail her?_ _What if he lost her forever this time?_

Jon rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to control his thoughts and fears.

A knock on the door made him open his eyes.

A servant entered into the room and informed him that Lord Lake wished to speak to him.

Jon frowned. The last thing he wanted to do was to look at Sebastian Lake's face, but the hope to find Sansa made him say yes to the man's request.

Part of him wanted to refuse his request, but the other part was glad for his arrival. Sebastian Lake's arrival meant more men – northern men – searching for Sansa, and Jon needed all the help he could get.

Sebastian Lake stepped into the room and bowed his head.

"Your Grace" – he stammered, not meeting Jon's eyes.

The King in the North noticed a slight tremble on Sebastian's hands.

Jon's mouth tightened; his eyes narrowed.

"I believe you're here to help finding Sansa" – he said, trying to understand the reason why Sebastian Lake looked so nervous.

"Yes" – Sebastian managed to say – "I am, Your Grace" – he added, clearing his throat – "I have information that may help us find Sansa"

Jon swallowed his pride after hearing the man addressing Sansa by her first name. He ignored the green-eyed monster of jealousy and rose from his chair, focusing only on the information Sebastian was sharing with him.

"What?" – he breathed, feeling his heart beating against his ribcage – "What, what do you know?" – he asked – "Do you know where she is? Who took her?"

Lord Lake gulped, avoiding eye-contact.

"Forgive me, Your Grace" – Sebastian Lake's voice trembled – "I, I never meant for this to, to happen…" – he explained – "You have to believe me…"

Jon's world stopped.

His eyes widened tenfold as Sebastian's words sunk in.

The King in the North glared at him with tight, trembling fists; his entire body was laced with a cold nervous sweat.

Rage flowed in his veins as he looked at the man in front of him.

Jon rushed forward, his boots thudding heavily on the floor. He was a storm. Sebastian Lake scarcely had time to blink before Jon grabbed him by the throat, slamming him into the nearest wall.

Jon was so enraged that he didn't even realize the man's feet dangled just off the ground.

Sebastian gasped and thrashed against Jon's hold.

"What did you do?" – Jon demanded. His rage was chilling – "Where is she?"

Sebastian choked.

"I don't know, please…" – he tried to say – "Your Grace…"

"Tell me!" – Jon growled – "Where is she?"

His heart was racing frantically and his breathing was becoming uneven.

"I, I don't know … She didn't tell me… I, I, I failed her behest…" – Sebastian stuttered – "She wanted me to marry Sansa, so she, she could marry you" – he tried to explain – "But you annulled our engagement and, and she –"

Suddenly, the door opened.

"Jon! I have news! A raven just arrived!" – Daenerys cried out as she rushed into the room – "Tyrion sent a letter and –" – she stopped talking abruptly, gasped, and placed her hand over her heart.

Her eyes widened as she watched Jon strangling another man.

"Jon" – she said, regaining her voice – "What on earth are you doing? Let him go!" – she added, walking towards him, before he strangled the man to death.

Jon did not let Sebastian Lake go.

The man's words echoed in his head.

 _She._

His mind stormed with questions.

 _Who was this 'She'? Who was this person? Why did she kidnap Sansa? What was her plan? What did Lord Lake have to do with any of this?_

Emotions were assailing him from all sides.

Despite the amount of questions in his mind, Jon was certain of one thing: Lord Lake had conspired against him. He was a traitor. He knew that someone was planning to kidnap Sansa, and he chose not to share that information. He could have prevented all of this, but he chose not to. Sansa was in danger because of him.

All his letters asking for Sansa's hand in marriage had been an attempt to fulfill some sick plan. He was a fake. He only saw Sansa as a mean to an end; a pawn.

Daenerys placed a hand on Jon's forearm. She was astonished at his rigidity. Her hand seemed to be pressing on stone.

"Jon!" – she repeated his name, louder this time, and he looked at her.

His mind was reeling.

 _Was Dany the 'She' that Sebastian spoke about? Was she the responsible for Sansa's abduction?_

 _No, no, no_ – a voice inside his head spoke – _It didn't make any sense._

Daenerys didn't want to marry him (as far as he knew, she didn't want to marry anyone). She was barren. If they married, the Targaryen lineage would end with them.

According to Dany, he was the one who needed to find a suitable bride, so he could have an heir. He had the responsibility to continue the Targaryen lineage. Besides, Daenerys wouldn't betray him like this; she wouldn't make him suffer like this.

If she didn't approve his feeling for Sansa, she would have told him something. They were always honest with each other. He was her only living relative. She loved him.

He looked down into her trusting violet eyes. She had a worried look on her face.

Jon released the offender.

Sebastian coughed, struggling for breath.

"Guards!" – the King growled; a few seconds later, two guards stepped into the room – "Take him to the dungeons" – Jon said, coldly. When the guards did not move fast enough for the King's liking, Daenerys saw Jon's eyes darken – "Now!" – he roared.

The guards grabbed Sebastian Lake and left quickly.

Jon kept panting deep heavy breaths while his racing heart refused to calm.

"He will pay a hundred times over for this"– he muttered.

"Jon…" – Daenerys tried to say, but before she could finish her sentence Jon plucked the letter out of her hand.

Swallowing harshly, his hands shaking, he forced himself to read it.

 _My dearest Queen_

 _My job here has proven rather difficult. The rose keeps delaying its return but I fear that spring is coming._ _A moon ago, the garden closed its doors and the city is slowly starting to be filled with dread._ _Flowers are essential to our survival, however, not all flowers are edible, and some can be dangerous to eat, even for dragons._

 _Beautiful petals can hide dangerous thorns which are perfectly placed to draw blood._

 _Your humble and loving servant_

Jon frowned. He reread the letter another half a dozen of times.

"Margaery Tyrell didn't return to court as she said she would" – Daenerys explained, noticing the way Jon kept looking at the parchment – "It's been a moon since the last carriage carrying most of the food supply got to King's Landing. It seems that House Tyrell stopped sending food to the capital" – she added.

Jon squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, feeling sick to his stomach.

Margaery Tyrell was the _She._ It had to be her.

Jon remembered his meeting with Margaery almost three moons ago.

He had offered her a seat on the Small council and she had accepted it. She didn't make any demands and she didn't talk about marriage prospects. She asked to travel to Highgarden so she could inform her brother about her new position, but she promised to return to King's Landing in less than two moons. She lied.

Daenerys and Tyrion's words echoed in his mind:

 _A high position at court is not exactly a crown._

 _She's in love with power._

He put his arms about himself as if he were cold.

 _How long had Margaery been planning this? Before the spring feast? After they offered her a seat on the Small council? What else was she calculating?_

His heart was hammering. She had managed to fool them all.

Jon looked at Dany.

The Dragon Queen met his eyes and, somehow, he knew that she was following the same line of thought that he had.

"She's got Sansa" – Jon said finally, in a cracking voice.

 _She's got her and we have no idea where –_ he added to himself.

"Yes, I believe so" – Daenerys said – "She's using Sansa as leverage against us"

Jon turned pale as he faced reality. He could taste the bile in his mouth.

He tried to keep his composure, trying not to let Daenerys know how terrified he was, but he failed.

"We have to talk to her, negotiate …" – Jon said after a few seconds of silence.

"No, Jon. We cannot simply walk up to her and talk" – Daenerys said calmly, sitting on a chair before the fireplace – "She doesn't want to negotiate. She wants the Seven Kingdoms" – she stated, looking at the flames.

"She can have the Seven Kingdoms. I'll renounce my claim if she wishes. Publicly" – Jon said immediately, approaching his writing desk.

He would do anything for Sansa.

"Jon…" – Daenerys started to say, but Jon was faster.

"I'll give her whatever she wishes if it means I can have Sansa back" – he insisted.

"You're not thinking clearly" – Daenerys sighed.

That seemed to break Jon. He turned to face her quickly. His face was pinched in anger.

"You don't get it!" – he banged his fist on the desk – "I can't lose her! I love her!" – his voice broke on _her_.

"You're the rightful King, Jon" – Dany retorted.

"I don't care about the damn title!" – he yelled – "I'll give her whatever she wishes if it means I can have Sansa back" – he repeated.

Daenerys rose from the chair.

"And then what? Do you really think that she will let you live?" – she said, raising her voice – "That she will let _us_ live?" – she added, her voice sounding more anxious than she intended – "She won't, Jon! As long as you and I are alive we are a threat to her reign"

Daenerys knew that Jon's fear of losing Sansa was growing, but he needed to understand what was at stake.

"She's clever. She chose the right moment to attack us" – she stated – "She waited for the Northern Houses to leave Winterfell and she waited for me to leave King's Landing, which leaves us in a vulnerable position, since we don't have an army fully prepared to …"

Daenerys continued to talk but Jon did not seem to hear her. He was trembling, his hands shaking with strain and tension.

 _He needed to find Sansa._

"… she wants Sansa with her when she confronts us. She's her leverage" – Daenerys continued to say – "And she must have the support of some Southern Houses. She wouldn't make a move against us if she didn't have some kind of reassurance that she could win" – she explained – "We need to find the oathbreakers and …"

Images, each one more twisted than the last, flitted through Jon's brain as he started to understand Margaery's plan.

Jon's fingers tightened until his knuckles paled. His mind started to show him images of Sebastian Lake and Margaery Tyrell plotting against him and his family.

The tension made Jon gasp for breath.

He stared down at his hands. They had begun to shake uncontrollably.

Jon closed his eyes and Sansa's smiling face invaded his mind.

 _If I lose her, I lose everything._

Suddenly, Dany and Jon heard the sound of flapping wings – a sound they both recognized very well.

A roar of a dragon resounded through the room. _Rhaegal_.

"We ride at dawn" – Jon stormed out of the room, not waiting for Dany's response.

* * *

She opened her eyes slowly.

The orange flames continued to consume the wood in the fireplace.

The room was occupied by a king size bed with a headboard and matching nightstands, two slat-backed wooden rockers and a small stuffed divan upholstered in dark brocade. Two small wooden tables, one on each side of the divan, held several candles. In the far left corner of the room stood an antique-looking desk.

Daenerys rubbed her temples, adjusting her eyes to her surroundings.

She sat up and looked around the room. It took her a moment to realize where she was.

The light coming from the fireplace bathed the bedchamber in a warm and reddish glow.

She looked to her right and saw a large glass door that led to a private balcony.

A piercing sound of a scream echoed through the room, startling her.

Daenerys threw the furs off of her and jumped out of bed. Her long blonde hair fell unadorned over her shoulders in gentle waves.

She walked towards the dressing table and tied her robe around her body.

The Dragon Queen stepped out onto the balcony and felt the cold night air caressing her skin, making her shiver. It was like the cold air was trying to reach her very bones.

The night was moonless and an impalpable haze dimmed the star-glow.

Daenerys missed the bright colors of King's Landing. She missed the sound of the ocean crashing against the shore, the smell of salt water and the sun warming her skin.

She stared out to the courtyard and saw a line of men chained up outside, against a stone wall. Despite the distance, she noticed that most men were badly injured.

Her mind whirled with confusion.

 _What's happening?_ – she wondered.

She could hear people shouting and screaming words that she couldn't quite understand.

Suddenly, she heard a roar and Drogon flew over her.

Daenerys felt her feet becoming cold and got back into her chambers.

The Queen slid her feet into a pair of dark brown knee-high boots; she grabbed her very heavy cloak and left the room.

Anticipation and dread rushed through her body. By the time she reached the courtyard she was breathless.

Dany almost lost her balance when she saw Jon. Her nephew's hands were painted red and blood was dripping from the sword in his hand. She could also see it splattered on his arms and up the front of his tunic.

Ser Davos was talking to him, but the King in the North seemed to be purposely ignoring him. Jon's face was stony and something was ragging behind his eyes.

Daenerys walked towards him.

The sound of dragon's wings flapping was loud and clear.

"It's freezing!" – a man shouted.

The Dragon Queen looked at the high wall in front of her. She immediately saw Sebastian Lake among the prisoners. His chains rattled; a steady trickle of blood coursed along his cheek and sticky blood coated his arms and legs.

A lump formed in Dany's throat.

 _Did Jon torture this man?_ – her insides seized.

"More prisoners are coming in, but the dungeons are filling up" – Ser Davos's words interrupted her thoughts, making her look at Jon; her nephew didn't move a muscle.

"You can't leave us out here!" – men cried – "We'll die... take us inside!"

Daenerys swallowed hard. The freezing night air felt like glass cutting her skin. Her teeth were chattering.

"They're right..." – she spoke for the first time – "It's too cold, many won't survive the night" – she explained.

"Many here didn't survive the night the assassins managed to enter the castle!" – Jon snapped – "Guards were killed and –" – his voice trailed off and he looked away, pain in his expression – "They got in because they thought us vulnerable" – he added, regaining control of his voice.

He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out Sansa's hairpin.

He looked at the small snowflake and fought to hide his anguish. Jon closed his hand around it and took a deep breath.

"I wanted to be one kind of king, but now I'm forced to be another" – he continued to say.

Rhaegal roared out angrily.

"Jon..." – Daenerys tried to say, but Jon ignored her.

"What is needed now is a king to be feared… and not just for the prisoners, but for all Westeros, and, by the Gods, I will give them one" – Jon stated; rage in his voice – "So that this never happens again" – he added, his expression dark.

Daenery's thoughts traveled and a quick image of Viserys's evil face flashed through her mind.

She shuddered.

She knew that some Targaryens appeared to be born mad. But Daenerys also knew that others developed madness as the years went by.

The Targaryens have always danced too close to madness, especially when circumstances encouraged it. For the Targaryens, madness and greatness were two sides of the same coin. According to some beliefs, House Targaryen carried the trait for insanity in its bloodline.

 _Every time a new Targaryen is born, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land._

This knowledge of the alleged madness in the Targaryen bloodline always concerned her.

She remembered Ser Barristan's words about her father – King Aerys II Targaryen. She was aware that her father was called _The Mad King._

Aerys showed great promise at the start of his reign, bringing peace and prosperity to the Seven Kingdoms, but later descended into insanity. His paranoia and cruelty grew out of control. _'Burn them all'_ , had been his last words.

She knew that in the blood of the dragon there was a taint, but she didn't want to be like her father and brother. She wanted to be better. She wanted to be a good queen. She always put the needs of her people before her own desires. She always wished to rule with justice. She didn't want to be remembered as _The Mad Queen_.

Daenerys looked at Jon. His expression was dark, and she could almost swear that his gentle gray eyes had turned violet. They gazed at the men with hostility as pure and concentrated as acid.

Daenerys bit the inside of her cheek. She didn't want Jon to become _The Mad King._

"Let them freeze!" – Jon roared.

Daenerys eyed him warily. His words awakened old twinges.

Her warm breath became a cloud, visible before her face in the chilling air.

A heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach leapt to her chest, and the words _'Burn them all'_ echoed in her mind.

* * *

 **So, I hope this chapter answered some of your questions (not all because that would be no fun, hahaha).**

 **Please share your thoughts with me! I love hearing your theories (:**

 **(You better prepare your heart for the next chapter! Something big is going to happen, and I'm so excited!)**


	13. Lady of Pain

**Depictions of violence and rape warning. It's nothing too graphic, but I wanted to make sure you're all warned.**

* * *

 _She slays, and her hands are not bloody;_

 _She moves as a moon in the wane,_

 _White-robed, and thy raiment is ruddy,_

 _Our Lady of Pain._

― Algernon Charles Swinburne

* * *

 **A fortnight later**

 _She was in the Great Hall._

 _The Iron Throne sat on a raised iron dais with high and narrow steps. A long carpet stretched from the throne to the Hall's great oak-and-bronze doors. High, narrow windows made the Hall look shadowy and infinite._

 _The air smelled like dust, candle wax and blood._

" _Do you have some business for the King and the Council, Sansa?" – Cersei spoke._

 _The Queen Mother was sat next to Joffrey._

" _I do. As it pleases, Your Grace, I ask mercy for my father, Lord Eddard Stark, who was Hand of the King" – Sansa said, looking at the Iron Throne._

" _Do you deny your father's crime?" – Petyr Baelish asked._

" _No" – Sansa stated._

 _Lord Baelish grinned a sudden ugly grin; his eyes sparkled with malevolence._

 _The world shifted and changed around her. She could hear the crowd screaming._

 _Sansa was now on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor._

 _The Sept was located at the top of Visenya's Hill, surrounded by a white marble plaza. It featured a statue of Baelor, which stood tall and serene upon his plinth; his face was a study of benevolence._

" _I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King. I come before you to confess my treason in the sight of Gods and men" – her father's voice invaded her ears – "I betrayed the faith of my King and the trust of my friend Robert. I swore to protect and defend his children, but before his blood was cold I plotted to murder his son... And seize the Throne for myself" – Ned Stark spoke; a false public confession._

" _Traitor!" – people screamed._

" _Let the high Septon and Baelor the blessed bear witness to what I say: Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the Iron Throne, by the Grace of all the gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm" – Ned Stark said._

 _Sansa met his eyes and smiled._

 _She remembered Joffrey's words: 'Your father has to confess. He has to confess and say that I'm the King... Or there'll be no mercy for him'_

 _Sansa had pleaded for her father's life. The King would be merciful. Her father would live. Everything would be alright._

" _Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!" – Joffrey commanded._

 _Sansa's heart thundered._

 _She could feel sweat running down her forehead, her temples pounded harder and faster with every heartbeat._

" _No! Stop! Daddy!" – she cried – "Someone stop him!"_

 _Tears rolled down her face._

 _The air felt like fire in her lungs, as if she were being burned to death from the inside out. She felt like she was being suffocated._

" _Stop! Daddy! Stop! No, no!" – she yelled._

" _Traitor!" – the crowd screamed._

" _Stop! Stop him, stop!" – Sansa cried; a sob tore from her throat – "Daddy!"_

Sansa woke suddenly, violently, and bolted upright in bed, heart racing.

She looked around, eyes wide open but filled with fear. The nightmare was still in her head.

 _Daddy_ – her own desperate words rang in her head.

She covered her face with her hands and tried to control her breathing.

The image of her father invaded her mind again. Her heart ached.

She could still see his long face, dark hair and gray eyes. Her father had a good sweet heart beneath his solemn face.

She loved him deeply and now he was dead.

She didn't save him. She watched him confess a crime he didn't commit, and smiled. She had been naïve enough to believe that, in the end, everything would be alright; she had believed in justice and songs, but justice and songs didn't save her father.

He was a good man and he died as a traitor.

How many times did she call him traitor? How many times did she confirm his crimes? How many times did she dishonor him?

Her pretty words didn't save him; her lies didn't save him or herself.

She could hear her own heart beating inside her chest.

Questions stormed her mind.

 _Why did she dream about the day she pleaded for her father's life?_

 _Why did she dream about the day he died?_

Throwing off the furs, Sansa rolled off of her bed and walked to her water basin, peeling soaked strands of her hair off of her neck. She splashed her face and wiped down some of her body with a wet rag before toweling off.

She looked at the table in the center of the room. A big flat box with a huge ribbon on top and several other smaller boxes and bags were still there – gifts from Littlefinger. The dress inside the big box was a gorgeous dark gray gown; it was fitted but flared out at the bottom, and small black mockingbirds were embroidered from both shoulders of the dress down to the skirt. The intricate beading made it look regal and expensive.

Sansa touched her gown. The pale lilac dress was dirty and the seam of the left sleeve was ripped, but she refused to change it.

Littlefinger thought an expensive dress would make everything alright. He couldn't be more wrong. The gift was the embodiment of his obsession.

Sansa smoothed her dirty clothes.

She braided her hair in a single thick braid and tied it together with her hair tie.

Never had she felt so far away from home.

They were now in Oldstones.

The ruined stronghold sat on a hill above the Blue Fork of the Trident. Nothing but its foundations remained and a sepulcher of the ancient River King Tristifer IV Mudd.

A sennight ago they had crossed the Twins easily. Money and gold could buy anything, and now that House Frey was dead, the men responsible for the maintenance of the two bridged castle were not as proud and prickly as Walder Frey had been.

She moved from her side of the tent and entered the spacious open room where they would eat and Lord Baelish would entertain the turncoats and oathbreakers.

Colorful rugs of various stripes covered the floor, and cushions lined the tent walls.

It was all of golden silk, the largest and grandest structure in the camp.

The Knights of the Vale's stares reminded her of childhood peers, back on King's Landing, who'd claimed she was the daughter of a traitor. But Sansa was no insecure child now. She responded with cool courtesy and sat on her chair.

"Why aren't you wearing the dress I gave you?" – Lord Baelish asked.

He was sat at the head of the table.

Sansa looked at him and her nightmare returned.

" _Do you deny your father's crime?" – Petyr Baelish asked._

" _No" – she stated._

A cold shiver ran down her spine.

She had blamed Joffrey, Cersei and Ser Ilyn for her father's death, but what if there was someone else involved in his death? Someone who worked in the shadows.

Her stomach lurched. It was like standing in front of Ramsay and Joffrey again, frightened and alert with her heart pounding.

Sansa tried to disguise her fear. She kept her eyes on his and spoke clearly.

"Because it would mark me as yours, bought as easily as any other commodity" – she stated.

Lord Baelish's smile was swift and without feeling.

"You need to eat something" – he finally said.

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek.

She stared at the ham and eggs like they were made of mud.

Feeling more like a puppet than a real human being, she managed a few mouthfuls of eggs. They tasted like nothing, even though she didn't doubt they were seasoned to perfection.

Littlefinger smiled and turned his attention back to Lord Wylde and Ser Swann.

Sansa looked at the knife on her hand. Before her brain could process what her body was doing, she slid the knife into the sleeve of her gown.

* * *

Sansa sat on the edge of her bed, looking at the knife.

She felt a tear on her cheek and wiped it away with her thumb. She had to pull herself together. There must be a way out of the camp.

She wondered it if she could use the knife to escape.

She heard the sound of footsteps approaching. She hid the knife under her pillow and rose from her bed.

The tent flap opened and Margaery walked into the room. She had with her two guards; one of them was carrying a tray of cakes.

Fingers laced together, back straight, Sansa met Margaery's eyes.

The Lady of Highgarden was no longer a lovely girl with doe's eyes and a cascade of soft brown hair. She was the enemy now. Sansa looked at her, and Cersei's face flashed through her mind.

"I brought your favorites" – Margaery cried enthusiastically – "Orange cakes" – she said, taking a bit of cake.

Sansa wanted to correct her. She loved _lemon_ cakes, not orange cakes.

She clenched her jaw and pursed her lips together in a thin line.

"I don't want anything from you" – she said.

"Just my crown" – Margaery retorted.

"You don't have a crown" – Sansa objected – "The Seven Kingdoms already have a Queen"

Margaery waved her hand, as if that fact could be ignored.

"Accidents happen" – she simply said; Sansa's eyes widened, understanding the double meaning of her words – "You didn't think I would stay hidden in the North, did you?" – she arched an eyebrow – "No roses can bloom there, save for the winter ones" – she added – "My place is in King's Landing"

The Lady of Highgarden walked towards her.

Sansa felt as though her heart had lodged in her throat as Margaery brushed back a loose strand of her hair.

A shiver went through her.

She remembered Margaery in white silk, so pure, innocent, beautiful; the dimples at the corners of her mouth when she smiled; the sweetness of her laugh; the warmth of her hands.

When had Margaery turned into this greedy, ambitious and sly person? Had she always been this person? Had she always hated her?

Maybe Margaery Tyrell was heartless.

She remembered their time in King's Landing. Margaery had been her only friend at court, or so she thought. She had made her feel safe and happy. Maybe it was all a lie; an act.

Sansa wondered if a little part of Margaery did ever care for her. She hoped it did, because she desperately needed to find a way to make her see reason. It was the only way to stop this madness.

If she managed to break the link between Margaery and Littlefinger, maybe she could have a chance. She needed to turn Littlefinger into the enemy – Margaery's enemy. She needed to weaken their alliance.

"Littlefinger is using you" – she started to say – "He only cares about himself. He doesn't want you on the Iron Throne. He wants it for himself"

Margaery smiled and walked towards the small table on the corner of the room.

She grabbed the jug and filled a cup with wine.

"Tell me something I don't know" – the Lady of Highgarden rolled her eyes – "He thinks he's smarter than everyone else, and that will be his doom" – she stated.

She took a seat and crossed her ankles.

Sansa remained in silence.

"It has been said that history repeats itself" – Margaery picked up her wine and drained her cup – "Do you believe that?" – she asked, meeting Sansa's blue eyes.

The Lady of Winterfell swallowed hard.

Margaery Tyrell really was heartless. She was confident that she would win the war, like Robert Baratheon did.

"I'm not Lyanna" – Sansa stated.

"No, you're not" – Margaery offered her a mischievous smile – "I've made sure of that"

Sansa did her best to breathe normally but her emotions kept getting the best of her.

"What's that supposed to mean?" – she managed to ask.

The Lady of Highgarden considered her for a very long moment.

"For centuries, noblemen have been using the rich aroma of red wine to cover up a very different scent" – Margaery said, refilling her cup with wine.

Sansa's mouth felt dry.

 _Poison._

Her hands went automatically to her stomach.

"You poisoned me?" – she asked with a trembling voice.

Her heart thundered in her chest. She forced her brain to understand Margaery's riddles.

"No, Sansa, I didn't poison you. You're my friend" – Margaery said; she fell silent for a moment, watching the expressions chase across Sansa's face – "Milk of the poppy" – she explained – "You were supposed to have drunk it _before_ the spring feast, so you would miss the banquet" – she continued to say – "I would have successful seduced your brother and all would be fine"

 _The spring feast._

Sansa had the vague memory of feeling languid and weak that night, after Jon's kiss; after drinking the wine in her chambers. When she woke, the next morning, Jon was already on his way to King's Landing. Margaery Tyrell had left Winterfell that day.

"But I suppose the plan didn't fail completely. You didn't run away with your lover, like your aunt did, so…" – the Maid of Highgarden interrupted her thoughts.

"Jon would've never married you" – Sansa swallowed her tears and forced the words out from her mouth.

Margaery had planned this right from the start. She pretended to be her friend, only to get close to her and betray her.

Sansa felt tired. She was tired of this game. She was tired of fighting.

 _Why couldn't the Gods let her be happy? Was that so much to ask after all she'd been through?_

"He would" – Margaery said, narrowing her eyes – "And you would've married Sebastian Lake. He even looked like the golden-haired knights you always dreamt about" – she added – "Did he not please you? Did your time with the Lannisters make you change your taste on men?"

Sansa knew what she was implying – incest.

Margaery was trying to stain her love for Jon.

"He is not my brother" – Sansa stated.

"Did you think I didn't see how you used to look at him when you thought I was not looking?" – Margaery continued to say, ignoring her words – "Seducing your brother would've been any easy task, if only you weren't around to ruin my plan. It was quite clear that he had no interest in me, because you made sure his eyes were always on you" – she declared – "You forced me to this, Sansa. All that is happening is your fault. I offered you a good life. I found you a suitable man for you to marry"

Sansa would have laughed if she wasn't so furious.

Sebastian Lake's proposal had been Margaery's behest.

She shook her head.

"You found me a suitable man for me to marry?" – she exclaimed – "Who are you, my father?"

"No, he's dead" – Margaery said coldly.

Sansa's eyes filled with tears at her response.

She could barely speak.

 _Daddy_ – she heard the thirteen-year-old version of herself say.

Her voice was broken and hoarse.

A trembling had started in her fingers, so pronounced she knitted her hands together tightly to try to stop them from shaking.

"You're not going to win" – she managed to say – "They have dragons" – she added.

"And I have _you_ , which means that their dragons are useless" – a wicked smile twisted across Margaery's face – "Your honorable Jon will not risk harming you. You're not immune to the fire"

A chill went down Sansa's spine as she realized what Margaery was saying.

She remembered a previous conversation with Lord Baelish:

" _Soon, they will be coming to rescue me and you don't have enough men to withstand them. You can't hope to defeat them" – she had said – "These men you bought, they are brutal men who kill and die for pay, but they won't be enough against a large force; against dragons"_

" _That may not be so…" – Baelish smiled._

They were right. Jon would not risk hurting her. He would not risk her life, which meant that Margaery and Littlefinger had the upper hand now.

The room tilted crazily.

Sansa inhaled deeply, taking in great gulps of air, fighting off dizziness.

"You're using me as a shield" – her throat hurt.

"You will be his doom, like Lyanna was Rhaegar's" – Margaery spoke.

She motioned for one of the guards to approach her. Sansa watched as the man gave Margaery a small parchment.

Sansa frowned.

"Did you know that he wrote you a letter before leaving?" – she asked, waving the missive in the air.

Sansa sucked in a deep breath, like she'd been punched.

Margaery had stolen her letter; the letter Jon wrote to her.

Fear gave way to a sudden wave of fury.

"It's a shame you'll never know what he wrote" – the Lady of Highgarden continued to say.

A candle flickered a few inches away. Margaery approached the letter to the flame and it caught alight.

A moment later, Jon's words were no more than black ashes.

Sansa's lungs hurt as she tried to control her breathing.

Her head spun.

She had to stop Margaery. She couldn't let her win. Margaery Tyrell was worse than Cersei Lannister.

 _Think. Think. Think._

Sansa came up with a desperate plan.

Her eyes gleamed like a wolf's.

Before Margaery's mind could register what she was doing, Sansa shoved her backwards and Margaery hit the ground hard. The Lady of Winterfell fell with her full weight on top of her; knees into her stomach.

Margaery's eyes were wide, shock in them.

Sansa slapped her face; the collision of flesh against flesh made a sound like a whip crack. Before she could hit her again, strong hands grabbed her and pulled her away from Margaery.

The Lady of Highgarden touched her cheek; it was now blue from Sansa's blow.

She looked at her, shocked by what she had just done. Her guards weren't sure what to do.

Her face went from frozen shock to devoid of emotion in a matter of seconds. Then, she laughed, a small laugh devoid of humor.

Sansa raised her chin defiantly, for she was determined not to show her any fear.

"Payback for me replacing you with Joffrey?" – Margaery asked.

"I didn't want to marry Joffrey. Your betrothal was a blessing to me" – Sansa spat.

Their gazes were locked, two fighters, two strong and resilient personalities.

There was a silence while Sansa's heart hammered out her fury and her eyes blazed at Margaery.

The Maid of Highgarden regarded her for a long time. Then, she grabbed one of the guards' swords. She advanced to her with the sword pointed for her heart.

Sansa felt a determination rise in her that she never felt before. She could almost hear the locking and clicking of her will as her body tensed to take the required action, which she knew she would take. She would stop Margaery's plan.

"Kill me" – Sansa raised her chin defiantly – "Do it!" – she insisted, trying to provoke her.

If she died, Margaery would lose the upper hand; she would lose her shield. Jon could use his dragons and defeat Margaery and Littlefinger.

If she died, Jon could win the war. She would no longer be a liability.

Margaery's eyes glowed brighter. She was looking at Sansa like a cat with its gaze fixed on a mouse.

She lifted the sword and brought it down on Sansa's braid.

"Not yet" – the Lady of Highgarden smiled.

Before Sansa could understand her words, Margaery swung the sword.

Sansa heard the sound of snipping.

Her heart stopped. She was too shocked to move.

Tears welled in her eyes as strands of red hair fell.

She saw her long braid on Margaery's hand.

Sansa's legs felt like water, shivers that had nothing to do with the cold ran through her body.

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, feeling as if she had lost more than hair. There was a literal attachment to her hair, a familiarity, a constant that she wasn't sure she could part with… but now it was too late.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. Margaery and the guards were no longer in the room.

She saw her own reflection in the mirror in front of her. A stranger. Her hair was cut to her jawline, which made her neck appear longer.

Tears rolled down her face.

Sansa tried to move back to the bed, but her legs gave away underneath her, and she collapsed to the floor, sobbing harder than she had since this whole mess had begun.

The thirteen-year-old version of herself returned. Sansa hated her. She hated the silly little girl who believed in songs and heroes. She hated her stupid dreams. She hated her tears.

Suddenly, Sansa felt a fire running through her whole body.

She wiped her tears and forced her body to move.

She approached the bed and lifted the pillow.

The knife gleamed.

* * *

A pile of letters and notices that had arrived earlier that afternoon sat on the table next to him.

Ravens began appearing a sennight ago, and every day more ravens arrived than the last. News of Sansa's kidnapping and Margaery's claim to the throne had spread fast through the Seven Kingdoms.

Most correspondence they received expressed a positive reaction to the Targaryen's call; Daenerys and Jon had summoned all the Houses of Westeros, but some responses were ambiguous, while others refused the call: the Stormlands had joined their forces with the Tyrell army, as well as House Arryn of the Eyrie and House Baelish.

The fire had died down and the room had grown cold.

They were at the Twins, gathering as many men as they could; preparing their army.

Jon was looking out the window; nightfall was close.

Lyanna Mormont's words echoed in his head:

" _You have the support of the Northern Houses. You know we would go to war with you" – she started to explain – "Queen Daenerys has dragons, armies and allies. The Tyrells don't stand a chance" – she added – "You don't have to marry Margaery Tyrell to ensure peace. She doesn't has the upper hand, you do"_

Lyanna was wrong. He didn't have the upper hand… not as long Margaery (and Littlefinger) had Sansa.

He couldn't use the dragons and burn them all. He couldn't risk burning Sansa.

Jon was starting to lose his mind.

He didn't have an army fully prepared for war. The unsullied army was in King's Landing. It would take weeks to gather all men and start the battle plans.

They were wasting time.

Every day that passed was a step closer for the Tyrells to gather more men and attack them.

The Tyrell's army was well trained. They had the best weapons and soldiers. The Tyrells had allies; many Houses didn't like to see a Targaryen sat on the Iron Throne again, much less two ruling the Seven Kingdoms. They feared the Targaryen taint – the alleged madness in the blood of the dragon.

Daenerys pulled her cloak tighter around her arms and watched Jon clenching his jaw. She knew he was thinking about Sansa. His worries grew heavier each day.

The realization that Petyr Baelish had crossed the Twins a sennight ago made him see red. It blotted his vision and turned his world to black hatred.

"There's been a riot in the south keep" – Ser Davos said, stepping into the room – "Some prisoners heard a rumor you were going to let them freeze to death. They panicked and two guards were killed" – he explained, looking at the King in the North.

"Hang the men responsible" – Jon stated, not bothering to look at the man.

Those men had allowed Petyr Baelish to cross the Twins. Their actions put Sansa in danger. They were the enemy.

"We don't yet know who started it or who dealt the killing blow" – Ser Davos said.

"Defiant even in captivity" – Jon said through gritted teeth.

The King in the North walked towards the table. He looked at the maps and letters spread out in front of him.

"Because they foresee death by your command" – Daenerys said, approaching him.

"Are you defending them?" – Jon suddenly snapped his head up and turned to look at her.

The look he shot her was as sour as poison.

"Of course not. I'm only advising you to choose your next move carefully" – the Dragon Queen explained – "The time has come to either dole out mercy or to crush them all" – she added – "Whichever you choose, there is no turning back"

"Terror worked for the Targaryen kings who ruled Westeros for almost 300 years. It kept the realm safe" – Jon declared.

"But at a price, Jon" – Daenerys retorted – "Rebellion, war, death, _madness_ " – she added.

Jon narrowed his eyes, and then looked away.

Daenerys watched him running his fingers through his dark curls.

"How many men are in the south keep?" – Jon asked.

"A dozen or so" – Ser Davos said.

Jon walked towards the door.

His hand reached for the carved brass doorknob that worked the lock.

"Hang them all" – he commanded – "In the courtyard, so the others can see what fate has in store for those who would rise against us" – he added.

The giant door moved away and Jon stepped out of the room.

Men who saw him coming move out of his way; some were shouldered aside.

He hurried down the corridor and walked up onto the battlements. He felt like he was suffocating. He needed some fresh air; his lungs hurt.

Daenerys followed him. She looked at Jon for a while as if pondering what to say.

"I know you'd let the world burn to keep her safe, but –"

"No" – Jon interrupted her – "It's more than that" – he said, gazing at the courtyard – "I would light the match" – he stated.

The Dragon Queen bit her lower lip.

The words _'Burn them all'_ echoed in her mind.

Dany shivered. She had to make Jon see reason. He was starting to lose control of his own actions. He was starting to sound like the Mad King.

"You can't lose yourself in this, Jon" – Daenerys reached over him, put a hand on his cheek and turned his face towards her – "Eventually the war will happen. When it does, you need to be there to command the men, to give them hope" – she explained – "You can't do that if you've lost yourself in the meantime"

Jon didn't answer. He had gone rigid all over, stiff as a bar of iron.

"Battles have been won against greater odds. We don't need dragons to defeat them" – Daenerys continued to say – "We're the rightful rulers of the Seven Kingdoms" – she added.

"I don't care about that" – the pain in Jon's voice made Daenerys sad – "I've never wanted to be king" – he sighed.

Jon fell silent and studied his hands.

Daenerys offered him a sad smile.

Her thoughts travelled and she remembered Ser Willem Darry. He had broken into the nursery, in Dragonstone, and saved her and Viserys from Stannis garrison; they set sail under cover of darkness for the safety of the Braavosian coast.

Ser Willem Darry had always been kind to Dany; his hands were soft as old leather.

She remembered the time they lived in Braavos, in the big house with the red door. She had her own room there, with a lemon tree outside her window. After Ser Willem died, the servants had stolen what little money that had left, and soon after they had been put out of the big house.

Daenerys had cried when the red door closed behind them forever.

They had wandered since then, from Braavos to Myr, from Myr to Tyrosh, and on to Qohor and Volantis and Lys, never staying long in any one place. Viserys would not allow it.

" _We will have it all back someday, sweet sister"_ – Viserys would promise her – _"The jewels and the silks, Dragonstone and King's Landing, the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms, all they have taken from us, we will have it back"_

"All I ever wanted was the big house with the red door, the lemon tree outside my window, the childhood I've never had" – Daenerys spoke.

The mention of the lemon tree made Jon think about Sansa. His heart ached.

The King in the North looked up at Dany. She looked as if she was lost in a distant memory.

"Then why did you claim the Iron Throne?" – Jon finally asked, breaking the silence.

"Because it was the right thing to do" – she half-smiled – "It was my duty, my destiny" – she raised her hand and pushed a lock of hair from his forehead – "My claim to the throne led me towards you … and finding you was better than fulfilling my dream" – she said softly – "I've never had a family, but now I do"

Jon noticed lines of concern rifted under her violet eyes.

She looked scared, scared _for_ him. Inside her indigo eyes, Jon could see that she was scared that he would lose his mind and become mad, like their ancestors.

He brushed his knuckles across her cheek, gazing at her with tenderness.

Jon pulled Dany into her arms. He closed his eyes and held her tight.

He moved his right hand so he could slide his fingers through her hair, cradling the back of her head.

Daenerys stood on her tiptoes so she could press her face to the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

They remained like this for a long time.

They could be as different as the sun and the moon but the same blood ran through their veins; the blood of the dragon.

 _A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing._

He was usually uncomfortable with Dany's constant demonstrations of affection, but he was now starting to understand her kind gestures and touches. He was surprised to realize how much he missed being held by her.

As he hugged Daenerys he could feel some of the anger and tension leaving his body. He felt the weight of the world slowly disappearing from his shoulders.

"Any word from Tyrion?" – Jon asked.

"The unsullied are ready and the Dornish are on our side" – Daenerys said – "They are in King's Landing waiting for us"

Jon nodded.

"We leave at first light" – he said.

* * *

Sansa watched him step into the room.

Lord Baelish, totally taken by surprise, looked up at her, shocked.

The look on his face made her want to thank Margaery for cutting her hair. He looked completely broken, devastated, lost.

She was no longer his precious Cat. His perfect picture was falling apart.

Sansa almost smiled.

"No…" – he cried, stumbling backward against the nearest wall.

His pain was her trophy.

Sansa gripped the handle of the knife in her sleeve.

"Why did you do this?" – he asked, sounding desperate – "Why did you do this?" – he repeated.

He thought she had cut her hair on purpose.

Sansa remained in silence, looking at him.

Petyr Baelish was slowly losing control of everything and Sansa hoped he felt as helpless as she did. He deserved to suffer before he died. She wanted to see him suffer before he died.

Littlefinger's men were mercenaries. Without gold they would have no reason to fight.

If Littlefinger died, his promises of gold died with him and part of his army would cease to exist. Fewer men meant less power, and less power meant defeat.

Margaery and Littlefinger would not win. Sansa needed to help Jon, no matter the cost.

If she couldn't turn Margaery against Littlefinger, she could, at least, diminish their army.

"Why?" – Lord Baelish screamed.

"Your picture will never come true" – Sansa said.

The pain, which only moments ago had pinched his features, had now slipped away, leaving his eyes cold, nearly glacial.

A wicked smile twisted across his face.

Instantly, Sansa understood his intention. She opened her mouth to scream, but he lunged and slammed her into the tent wall, clamping one of his hands over her mouth.

"You should be nicer to me, Sansa, you really should" – he was panting like an animal – "Like you're nice to that bastard brother you've got" – he said – "How come you're giving him what you never gave me, huh?"

Starting at the base of her throat, he trailed the fingers of one hand slowly downwards.

A sound of outrage issued from Sansa's throat when Lord Baelish squeezed her breast with his free hand, but that only made him maul her more roughly.

"How come you prefer that bastard instead of me?" – he spoke again.

Lord Baelish managed to work his hand between their bodies and push it between her legs.

Sansa tried to evade his crude thrusting motions, but she couldn't move from side to side. Her entire field of vision was filled with his face; his small eyes smoldering with resentment and cruelty.

Grunting with the effort, he pushed her feet apart with his, making it impossible for her to close her legs.

Sansa's mind was screaming.

 _This cannot be happening. Not again._

Vivid flashes of Ramsay invaded her mind.

With a sadistic smile, Baelish nuzzled along the side of her neck, tracing slobbering kisses. He kept her mouth blocked, stifling any cries.

Terror overwhelmed her.

Mere moments and it would be too late.

He was determined to have his way with her. All sense of decency and propriety had deserted him.

Lord Baelish's hand flew to her throat, squeezing.

Sansa clawed at his hand while fumbling the handle of the knife, struggling to slip it out of her sleeve.

"I can take much better care of you than the bastard" – he murmured with a sadistic smile.

The edges of Sansa's vision grew dark as his grip tightened even more, but she refused to let this be the end; to let him win.

Centering her attention on what must be done, Sansa forced her body to relax.

 _Be calm_ – she repeated over and over.

She ceased struggling and went limp.

Feeling the fight go out of her, Lord Baelish came to false conclusions.

 _Regain control_ – she repeated.

In arrogance and over eagerness, Lord Baelish actually thought she would give in to his advances.

Confident of attaining his goal, he relaxed his hold on her only marginally, but Sansa used that split second to push against his chest with her hands.

He staggered back a few inches.

Sansa's body moved by itself: three quick jabs to the stomach, one to the throat.

 _And he'll go right to his knees._

She heard Jon's words echoing in her head as Lord Baelish fell to the floor.

The Lady of Winterfell stumbled away, gasping for air and finally pulling the knife from her sleeve.

She felt the room spinning as the blood rushed to her head. She felt dizzy from the strangulation.

Sansa took a deep breath; her knees were trembling and her heart was hammering. She tightened her grip on the handle of the knife.

Before she could control her breathing, Lord Baelish surged toward her; his hands reaching for her throat again.

This time she was ready.

She ducked and thrust the knife as hard as she could into his belly. It slid far more easily than she imagined it would, and the handle slipped from her grip.

Lord Baelish looked down at the knife sticking out of his stomach.

Sansa felt her entire body trembling.

With a pained wince, Baelish pulled the blade out of his body; his expression strangely calm, making Sansa's insides twist; her eyes widened.

Her legs gave away underneath her, and she collapsed to the floor. She was unarmed and exhausted.

She was tired of fighting. She was tired of losing.

Petyr Baelish had to be in pain, but he walked towards with ease.

"I once pressed a knife against your father's throat" – he said, looking at the knife he was holding.

There was a laugher in his voice. Cold, cruel, hard laugher.

Sansa's heart battered her ribs as she tried to breathe slowly.

"Do you remember the day he died?" – Lord Baelish asked, enjoying the way Sansa's body tensed – "The day _I_ killed him?" – he added.

His lips curled in a mocking, sardonic grin.

Sansa forced herself not to show the torrent of emotions pouring through her, but she failed. Fear and fury mixed together.

Calming her racing thoughts was next to impossible. It was impossible not to let fear grip her. Her nightmare returned:

" _Do you deny your father's crime?" – Petyr Baelish asked._

" _No" – Sansa stated._

She prepared herself for the worst.

"You betrayed him" – she stated, summoning up all her courage.

"I did" – Lord Baelish said – "He needed the gold cloaks on his side, otherwise the Queen's men would be enough to overwhelm what remained of his household guard" – he started to explain – "Before he confronted Cersei I told him the City Watch was his" – he added, looking right into her eyes – "And do you want to know why I did it?" – he asked; his eyes sparkled with wickedness – "Because he ruined my picture. He stole _her_ from me" – his voice as sour as poison – "I planned your father's death since the day he arrived in King's Landing"

Sansa's lungs ached, her heart was pounding with fear and over-exertion; every fiber in her body was tensed and straining.

Fire and ice filled her.

"You knew Joffrey wouldn't spare his life, didn't you?" – though her lips trembled, she kept her eyes on his and spoke clearly – "You watched me plead for my father's life. You watched me say that he was guilty in front of the entire court and you knew that my words would be for nothing, didn't you?" – Sansa felt her voice rise, but she didn't bother to force it back down – "You knew that even if my father confessed a crime he didn't commit, Joffrey would kill him anyway, didn't you? Didn't you?" – she demanded; her fear and anger blending together into something very like despair.

His smile was twisted.

Sansa hated him and she hated herself for not being able to kill him.

"You're sick" – she spat.

"My only regret was that I didn't slit his throat right there and then, in front of the Iron Throne" – he stated.

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek, refusing to cry.

Lord Baelish leaned down, so he was at her level.

Holding the knife like a toy, he pressed it against her cheek and she felt the warm blood – his blood – pour down her face.

She suppressed a shudder; her lips curled in disgust.

Sansa looked right into his eyes. There was a deep dark rage in them. He was going to kill her. She knew it.

Frigid fear rushed through her, warring with the torrent of incandescent anger.

Sansa bit her lower lip, stopping the tears from falling. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

Part of her wanted – longed – to die. It was the only way she would ever be free of him. Maybe, if she died, she could meet her father again. Maybe she would be able to see her family again. Father, mother, Robb, Rickon… she would see them again.

She felt a sharp pain in her chest as Jon's face invaded her mind.

If she died, she wouldn't see him anymore. She would never get the chance to tell him that she loved him; that she loved him more than she ever thought possible.

Sansa closed her eyes and disguised a sob.

She tried hard to cling to some hope: Jon would never be on his own. He had Daenerys and Bran… and Arya. Arya would find him. Besides, if she died, Jon would win the war. He could use the dragons and burn the enemy's army. Sansa tried hard to cling to that thought.

She opened her eyes, ready to face her enemy; ready to face death.

Lord Baelish, as if a gentle lover, caressed her cheek and down her neck.

Sansa glowered at him.

Suddenly, a blade was put against his throat and slit it right open.

The gash was deep; blood spurted forth from the several arteries, spattering over her.

Littlefinger's eyes widened in shock as he choked on blood, spitting out mouthfuls. He clutched his throat, blood pouring around the edges of his fingers.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

Sansa's throat somehow closed up, she was too scared to scream.

She wanted to scream, but she was too scared to scream, too scared to even move. All she could do was stay still.

She stared at the front of her gown saturated with blood.

Sansa felt sweat running down her forehead; her temples pounded harder and faster with every heartbeat. She tried to control her breathing, but the blood pooling in her skirts made her entire body tremble.

Her lungs hurt and her breath came in gasps.

Sansa summoned up every ounce of courage and determination from within herself.

When she finally gained control of the amount of emotions that were invading her body, she forced her head to look up.

For a split second, she thought she was dead or dreaming.

A tear slid down her cheek.

A wave of relief, joy and astonishment washed over her.

"Arya" – she breathed.

* * *

 **Arya is coming to play!**

 **I planned this since I began the fic.** **This was ALWAYS the plan. I absolutely love Arya, so she definitely had to be part of this story! I hope you guys are okay with this twist.**

 **Please let me know what you think! (:**


	14. The Pack

**I'm so sorry for the wait! Thank you all for reading, commenting and following!**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _It never troubles the wolf how many the sheep may be_ — Virgil

* * *

The floor under her seemed to tilt as she got up from the ground. Her hands had begun to shake uncontrollably, her knees felt like bags of water.

The ringing in her ears quieted, allowing her to better focus on her sister.

A sob rose in her chest. Sansa's heart was hammering.

"Arya" – the word escaped from her lips, again.

Sansa took a step forward. The world tilted. She reached out; her hand touched Arya's arm and Sansa sighed. She was not dreaming. Arya was real; she was alive.

The Lady of Winterfell let out a watery laugh.

"You're alive…" – her voice failed her – "I, I can't believe you're really here" – she stammered – "I miss –"

Before Sansa's hand could touch her sister's cheek, Arya grabbed her hand.

"We don't have time for this" – Arya interrupted her – "We need to –"

Suddenly, the tent flap opened, preventing Arya from finishing her sentence.

She pushed Sansa behind her, instinctively shielding her sister's body with hers.

Sansa's breath caught in her throat as a tall man walked into the room. His shoulders looked unfeasibly wide; his hair, black as night, was thick and straight, and shot out in all directions. He looked beautiful and dangerous.

Unconsciously, she clutched Arya's arm, fearing the worst.

"I told you to wait outside with the horses!" – Arya's sharp voice startled Sansa.

The Lady of Winterfell almost lost her balance when Arya walked towards the man, leaving her without physical support.

"And I waited outside, but I thought something happened to you since you were taking so long" – the man retorted.

Arya's eyes shot daggers at him and her lips were draw into a tight line.

"I told you I wouldn't get hurt" – she said, narrowing her eyes – "See, not even a scratch" – she added.

Sansa watched as her sister and the tall man talked.

He seemed surprisingly calm when compared to Arya's frantic gestures and harsh retorts. It was like he was used to her temper.

Before she could even blink, Arya walked towards her again and grabbed her arm.

Sansa looked down at her, her blue eyes wild with fear.

"We need to leave right now" – the younger Stark spoke.

She grabbed Sansa's hand and practically dragged her away.

They made their way quickly to the horses.

Arya pulled her body into the saddle in a single fluid movement.

The man offered Sansa a hand and she stepped into it, allowing him to propel her up onto the horse's back. She mounted the animal behind Arya.

"Let's go!" – Arya said.

She kicked the horse into action before Sansa was even fully in the saddle, forcing her sister to close her arms firmly around her.

The man mounted his horse and followed them.

They were off quickly, but Sansa wasn't certain it would be quick enough. She knew it wouldn't be long before soldiers found Littlefinger's dead body and started searching for her.

She could still feel the knife he'd pressed against her cheek and the warm blood pouring down her face.

She gripped Arya's waist as she kicked the horse into a faster pace, weaving through the trees with precision.

Arya glanced over at Gendry.

"Come this way" – she said to him, who was a bit behind them.

They pushed the horses away from the road.

The night was dark, but the moon washed everything in silver.

Hours later, they came down a mountain.

Arya pulled up the horse.

"We should camp here" – she dismounted first.

"Won't they see our tracks?" – Sansa asked, after jumping down.

Arya pulled the horse under a large tree, where she secured it.

"The forest's surface is too hard to show our tracks. Plus, it's dark" – Arya explained, looking around her surroundings – "We just need to find a place where we won't leave an obvious trail of flattened grass"

Gendry pulled at the straps of the saddle, removing it from his horse's back.

Arya watched him as he dropped the saddle to the ground.

The air was cool on Sansa's back and she realized for the first time precisely how cold she was.

She stared at the front of her gown saturated with blood, and gorge rose in her throat.

Blood coated her hands. The metallic scent of her blood made her stomach clench until bile rose and stung the back of her throat, again, leaving a sour taste on her tongue.

She took a few shallow breaths to stave off the inevitable.

Mind-sharpening memories of the last hours flipped through her brain: Margaery waving Jon's letter in the air, her hand holding her long braid, Littlefinger's wicked smile, his hand squeezing her breast, his feet pushing her feet apart, his slobbering kisses… the gash in his throat.

A wave of dizziness came over her, the strange sensation that she was going to faint.

Sansa paled visibly and Arya quickly moved to her side. She grabbed her arms, turning her body towards her.

"Focus on me, Sansa" – Arya said.

Sansa eyed her. She allowed her sister's voice to drive away the terror coursing through her; the vision of Petyr Baelish's dead body and Margaery's evil face slowly dissolving.

She took a deep breath and focused her attention on Arya.

Her little sister was wearing black trousers, a brown tunic, and over it a sort of armor-shirt of leather with bronze plates riveted to it. This was held in at the waist with a thick leather belt, which secured a sword and a dagger.

Her hair was mussed, strands falling forward out of her small braid; it was tied with a thin leather lace.

Sansa thought she was beautiful.

"You're so beautiful" – she smiled, touching Arya's braid; it barely reached her shoulder – "A woman grown" – she chuckled lightly.

Arya felt her cheeks flush and averted her gaze. She immediately sensed Gendry's presence, and her cheeks burned with color.

Arya knew that she wasn't beautiful like her sister was. She was too short to be beautiful. She was slender, with a small chest, narrow hips and a temper.

She cleared her throat, trying to ignore Sansa's words.

"This is Gendry" – she managed to say, introducing him – "He's my … friend and … and he's been helping me"

Sansa eyed him cautiously, but seeing his gentle eyes, she relaxed. He seemed trustworthy.

Gendry held out a hand to her, lowering his head as his eyes penetrated hers.

"Nice to meet you, Gendry" – Sansa said.

She hesitated before offering her hand. It was painted red; dried blood within the cuticles and it cracked when she bent her fingers, but Gendry didn't seem to mind. He shook her hand gently but firmly. His skin was warm and hard.

"My Lady" – he said, bowing his head.

Sansa arched an eyebrow and looked at Arya, clearly not expecting this kind of formality from one of her friends.

Arya rolled her eyes.

 _Gendry ever the noble, ever the stupid bullheaded._

"Thank you for helping us, Gendry" – Sansa spoke – "And please call me Sansa, I insist" – she added, offering a warm smile.

Gendry nodded.

Arya walked towards one of the horses and riffled through the saddle bags. Sansa watched her pull out some clothes from one of the bags.

"I'll take the horses down to the hill to look for water" – Gendry spoke – "I think I heard a stream in the distance when we first crested the valley"

He pulled at the horses and stepped away from the girls, giving them some privacy.

Arya handed Sansa a pair of black trousers, a dyed blue tunic and an old dark cloak.

"I know you aren't used to wearing men's clothes, but – " – Arya started to say, but Sansa interrupted her.

"But they're going to be looking for Sansa Stark, a woman in a dress, not a man" – she completed.

Moments later, the Lady of Winterfell was clad in the unfamiliar garments. It felt distinctly odd to be walking without a corset and skirts swishing about her ankles.

The trousers, of course, had not been fashioned to be worn by a woman; they were loose at the waist, and then clung lovingly to her hips.

"Whose clothes are these?" – Sansa asked, genuinely curious.

"I don't know" – Arya shrugged – "I stole them" – she added, strapping a weapons belt around Sansa's waist.

The Lady of Winterfell blinked.

"You stole them" – she said as she seized a dagger from her weapons belt.

Arya pursed her lips into a thin line, preparing herself for one of her sister's lecture.

"I'm not judging you" – Sansa continued to say as if hearing her thoughts; she smiled at the surprised look on Arya's face.

After a few seconds of silence, the younger Stark finally spoke:

"You'd better pull your hood up" – she suggested – "Your hair is recognizable"

Sansa touched her hair.

Her heart raced.

All of her long red tresses were gone. Her hair was now an uneven chin length.

"Not anymore" – she murmured.

Arya watched her sister running her fingers through her short hair.

As long as she has known her, Sansa had always worn her hair long. Her sister loved her beautiful Tully hair and the way people compared her to their mother, Catelyn Stark. She always wanted to be exactly like their mother – the perfect lady.

She loved ribbons in her hair and took pride in how they looked. Sometimes she would even pin her hair and adorn it with pearls or flowers.

Sansa's hair was not only a symbol of a strong identification with their mother, but it was also an integral part of what defined her, and she felt like losing her hair was a little like losing her identity.

"What happened?" – Arya asked.

"Margaery Tyrell happened" – Sansa said weakly, looking at Arya, misty-eyed.

The look on her face made Arya sad.

"It'll grow again" – she said, trying to comfort her.

For a moment Sansa studied Arya, as if assessing her sincerity. She let out a breath that she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"It was my fault" – she trailed off – "I, I provoked her" – she explained, quickly becoming frustrated.

Arya frowned.

"You provoked her" – she said and somehow the sentence sounded like a question.

Sansa's eyes were stinging the way they did when she tried to hold tears back for too long.

Her mind went to dark places and she remembered her pathetic idea to stop Margaery's plan.

 _You will be his doom, like Lyanna was Rhaegar's_ – the Lady of Highgarden's words echoed in her head.

Margaery was right. History was repeating itself. A Targaryen was once again starting a war because of a Stark girl.

Jon was more like his father than anyone would ever expect. That realization made Sansa's stomach twist.

She covered her face with her hands and tried to control her breathing.

 _When you're old enough, I'll make you a match with someone who's worthy of you. Someone who's brave and gentle and strong._

A chill pierced Sansa's heart.

She could still see her father and the gold cloaks flinging him down. She could still see Ser Ilyn striding forward, unsheathing Ice from the scabbard on his back and the moment when….

Sansa gulped.

She had wanted to look away, but her legs had gone out from under her and she had fallen to her knees, yet somehow she could not turn her head, and all the people were screaming and shouting, and Joffrey had smiled at her, he'd smiled and she'd felt safe, but only for a heartbeat, until he said those words, and her father's head …

"I'm tired of being a liability!" – she cried; her chest became tight – "I don't want Jon to die for me like Father did" – her voice breaking slightly; Arya was looking at her, the look on her face unreadable – "Father died because of me. He died as a traitor to protect me. He confessed a crime he didn't commit because of me; because he wanted to protect me" – she tried to control her frantic emotions from consuming her – "If I had escaped like you did …"

"Father would've died anyway" – Arya immediately said – "You heard what Littlefinger said" – she added.

Sansa froze.

She remembered Littlefinger's words about their father's death, but she also remembered his other words about her and Jon.

 _How come you prefer that bastard instead of me?_

Her heart started to beat faster than ever before; in fact, she felt that Arya could hear her heart beat.

Sansa's mouth opened, closed. She hesitated in part because she feared her sister's reaction. She had no idea how Arya would react once she found out about her and Jon.

Would she accept it? Would she be happy? Would she compare them to the Lannisters? Would she feel disgusted by her love for Jon?

Did she even know that Jon was not their brother? Did she know that he was aunt Lyanna's son?

She feared Arya's coolness.

They'd never been close. She didn't have with Arya the kind of bond that Jon had.

Jon was Arya's favorite brother; he was her best friend; she loved him. Sansa and Arya were sisters, but they were never friends.

 _I can take much better care of you than the bastard._

Did Arya hear those words?

Sansa had the impression that her sister knew her thoughts.

"Arya …" – she tried to say.

"I think it would be best to make camp and keep going tomorrow" – Arya cut her off – "I'll go fetch some firewood" – she added, walking away from Sansa.

* * *

 **The next day**

The room was wide and circular, with open windows and tall pillars around the edges. At its center stood a magnificent marble table; the slab rested upon the backs of three dragons, made from the same marble.

There was a large map hanging upon the wall. A map of the Seven Kingdoms. Everyone's attention was directed to Harrenhal. The largest and greatest fortress ever built in Westeros; it took three generations to finish.

The far wall was painted with an image of a dragon.

The breeze coming in through the balcony didn't clear the tension in the room.

A golden crown sat upon Daenerys's head; her silver-blonde hair was held away in a complicated array of braids. She wore a bright red gown of silk bound together by a pair of bronze rings, her skirts trailing far behind her.

"Our scouts confirm the Tyrell army is heading to Harrenhal" – Tyrion spoke.

Harrenhal covered three times as much ground as Winterfell and its buildings were so much larger that they could scarcely be compared. Its stables could house more than a thousand horses and its Godswood covered twenty acres.

The surrounding lands subject to Harrenhal were actually some of the richest and most fertile in all of Westeros, being located in the watersheds of both the Trident River and Gods Eye lake.

"The Stormlands are bringing around a second army from the South" – Tyrion continued to say.

"We have three dragons" – Ellaria Sand spoke.

"We're not using the dragons" – Jon stated; Daenerys felt the tension in the room rise – "I'll lead the vanguard" – he added.

"Your Grace, I fully trust in your ability to lead the vanguard, but – " – Tyrion tried to say.

"My decision is final" – Jon interrupted him; his glare could melt Valyrian steel – "We have 60.000 men. They have half of our forces" – he stated.

His hands were clenched together. He could feel the anger clawing in his chest at the thought of someone frightening or harming Sansa.

She was the only thing in his life that'd ever made sense. If he lost her, like he'd lost everyone else, he didn't think he could live through that.

The thought of losing her had become more terrifying than the threat of losing the throne, the war or his life. He could actually feel the panic spreading along his body, burning fast and fierce like the green flames of wildfire.

 _I cannot lose her. I cannot._

He remembered her red hair – red like fire. People said it was good luck. Not good enough though: she's was in harm's way.

His stomach sickened at the thought. Images, each one more twisted than the other, flitted through his brain: Sansa crumpled on the battlefield, painted in her own blood, the color drained from her body, her big bright eyes closed forever…

Terror crept up his skin.

He could wield a sword, ride a dragon and lead an army, but he couldn't bring the dead back to life. There would be nothing he could do.

Sansa was everything. Everything he thought he could never have. Everything he'd ever wanted. Someone brave, gentle and strong; someone to share his burdens and be his best advisor and closest friend; someone to love and build a family… A partner in life.

Love, happiness, future.

He wanted all of that with Sansa alone.

"A large portion of the enemy's army will be dedicated to the defensive line" – Grey Worm said – "The rest will be spread to engage the rebellion"

Jon scrubbed his beard.

"I want 20.000 of our men to occupy the foothills and immediate plains along the Trident. We need to form columns for the push into the heart of Harrenhal" – he explained – "They will push out under cover of darkness where I'll ride out to assume control"

Once the formality of tactics was finished, he dismissed everyone with a rough command, thankful for the authority that kingship afforded. Only Daenerys stayed.

Jon stepped out onto the balcony.

He exhaled when her indigo eyes met his with understanding.

She knew his thoughts. She knew that Sansa's absence was the source of his building dread.

Dany slipped her smooth hand into his.

"She is strong, Jon" – she said and Jon almost managed to smile at that.

* * *

 **A sennight later**

They were coming up the creek slowly, checking for signs, and although they had tried to be careful, any tracker with experience could follow them.

The danger set Sansa's adrenaline pumping, and she forced herself to stay calm.

Her legs were incredibly sore; her muscles unaccustomed to riding on horseback at this pace for this long.

The journey to King's Landing – the place she'd swore she would never return to – by horse was a hard one, but it was their only chance at survival. Going north was not an option; the Tyrell army blocked all the routes to Winterfell. They needed to go south; they needed to find Jon.

 _Jon._

Arya barely said his name during their journey. She only mentioned him once, and Sansa couldn't help but feel a sharp pain in her chest at her sister's behavior. It was like Arya purposely avoided to say his name; saying his name caused her to visibly flinch.

Sansa tried to distract herself with thoughts of anything but their current situation.

She focused her attention on Gendry, remembering the past few day's events: the hours she spent listening to him and Arya bicker like an old married couple.

Gendry was all hard lines and bulky frame, but there was a gentle calmness about him that made Sansa like him.

He was good for Arya. He could be the calm that her sister needed.

They teased each other good-naturally. Arya blustered, Gendry scowled, but there was no real heat behind their words. It was actually pretty funny to watch, Sansa thought. It was obvious that they had an easiness between them that spoke of the years they'd spent together.

Sansa caught herself smiling. They truly acted like an old married couple with their routines, their bickering, and their understanding of each other.

Suddenly, a shout sounded somewhere close.

Sansa's smile immediately disappeared.

"They've found us" – Arya turned to see soldiers pointing and shouting – "We don' have much time" – she added as she calculated the distance and the obstacles in their way.

She kicked the horse, and Sansa tightened her grip around her.

It wasn't long before the horsed soldiers were following them.

"Hang on" – Arya warned Sansa.

She kicked the horse into a faster pace. Gendry followed her lead.

Sansa glanced behind them. The soldiers were still visible through the trees. They hadn't lost them yet.

A hill loomed in front of them.

"Come this way" – Arya said to Gendry, who was a bit behind them.

They cut around sharply behind the hill and pushed the horses away from the road.

Sansa was about to speak when a sudden thwack of an arrow sounded not far from her ears.

She tensed. They hadn't lost them.

Gendry pulled up the horse, signaling to Arya. She held her horse still.

"They have to be nearly here. You've got to go" – he muttered – "I'll distract them"

Arya's eyes widened as Gendry's words sunk in.

"What? No!" – she exclaimed; her heart hammering – "Do you want to die, you stubborn fool?"

Another arrow flew past them, this time near to Gendry's head, then Sansa's.

"I'll distract them" – he insisted.

"Distract them with what? Your male charms?" – Arya protested.

Gendry seized a hammer from the belt strapped diagonally across his back.

Sansa bit her lower lip.

"Then I will stay as well" – Arya said, reaching for her sword – "I won't leave you" – her eyes defiant, though her voice betrayed her with a slight quiver.

"Arya…" – he tried to say.

"No, Gendry! No!" – Arya's voice was a rough whisper.

She closed her eyes, as if she could stop everything if she hoped hard enough. But that was not the world they lived in. They lived within chaos and destruction, a world they neither asked for nor created.

"You're a better rider than me. If I distract them, it'll give you time to get away" – Gendry spoke – "You must protect your sister" – his voice was low and soft, but clear; he could see in her eyes that she wanted desperately to argue, and yet she knew he was right – "I'll be fine" – he said – "I'll meet you at High Heart"

He noticed that her gray eyes were filled with unshed tears.

A part of Arya wanted to rush into battle, but it was quickly overruled by the desire to keep Sansa safe.

Gendry took the reins and kicked the horse into action.

Arya hesitated for only a split second, her eyes trained on Gendry; her face tight with pain. She felt him go, like a coldness.

It wasn't long before they heard the roar of men and the clash of swords.

* * *

High Heart was a very tall hill. It was considered a very safe place due to its relative height compared to the very flat surrounding land, making it nearly impossible to be approached unseen.

Arya sat on a big rock, near the edge of the hill, and stared morosely down at the Riverlands. The view from here was pretty spectacular, she had to admit.

 _Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow. Fear cuts deeper than swords_

She could look out over Acorn Hall (a castle in the Riverlands), past Sallydance and Stone Hedge, out toward something that gleamed in the far distance like the edge of a silver coin—Ruby Ford, a crossing of the River Trident; it was so named for the rubies that were knocked from Prince Rhaegar Targaryen's breastplate during the Battle of the Trident. Robert drove his warhammer into the prince's chest, killing him. Adorning Rhaegar's breastplate was a three-headed dragon, the symbol of House Targaryen, done in rubies. The hammer blow knocked the rubies from Rhaegar's chest, spilling them into the ford and giving the ford its name.

 _Quick as a snake. Calm as still water. Fear cuts deeper than swords._

Arya looked down at her hands. She had torn up several fistfuls of grass in the last spasms of her anger, and her fingers were sticky with dirt and blood where she'd ripped a nail half off.

Once the fury had passed, a feeling of utter emptiness had replaced it. She couldn't help feeling that Gendry's gesture was close to suicide. She pushed the thought away.

 _Strong as a bear. Fierce as a wolverine. Fear cuts deeper than swords._

"Mind if I join you?" – a familiar voice said.

Arya looked up and met Sansa's blue eyes. She brushed the dirt off her hands and nodded.

Sansa sat beside her.

"Nice view" – she commented, looking out over the riverlands.

"You should be resting" – Arya spoke.

Sansa looked at her sidelong.

She was silent for a long moment.

Sansa knew that her sister was thinking about Gendry; she knew that Arya was scared for him; she knew that Arya cared about him.

 _She might even love him_ – Sansa thought.

Sansa was her sister. It was her job to know her, to worry for her and to watch out for her well-being.

She wished Arya trusted her enough to share her thoughts and feelings with her.

They were supposed to be able to trust each other with any intimate secret, but their personalities were so different…

Finally she said:

"When we used to fight you'd go and sulk on the roof and Father would have to get you down" – she spoke.

Arya narrowed her eyes, confused.

"When you get upset you head for high ground" – Sansa explained.

Arya laced her hands around her knees and stared out at the riverlands.

The sun was low in the sky, and the rooftops of the small villages had begun to glow a faint reddish pink.

"I'm sure Gendry – " – Sansa tried to say.

"Where did you learn to hit like that?" – Arya cut her off – "Littlefinger got right to his knees" – she added.

Sansa's mouth felt dry as her thoughts travelled and she remembered the exact moment Littlefinger relaxed his hold on her, allowing her to hit his stomach and throat. She could still remember the way he'd fell to the floor and the knife in her sleeve.

Her stomach tightened. Her palms were sticky, and not from the heat. In fact, it was cool.

"Jon taught me" – she managed to say, swallowing back tears.

"Jon…" – Arya murmured; she looked as if she was lost in a distant memory – "You learned well" – she cleared her throat.

Sansa wrung her hands as Jon's words echoed in her head:

 _Three quick jabs to the stomach, one to the throat, and he'll go right to his knees._

Her sadness clawed at her throat.

The memory of his intense gray eyes and raven hair made her heart ache; she missed him so much. She missed his laugh, his touch, his kiss, his perfect smile. She missed him, more than she had ever missed anyone in her life. She longed to hear his voice again, to touch his skin…

Sansa took a deep breath, determined to finally tell Arya everything about her and Jon.

She was tired of pretending, of hiding, of restraining.

"There's something you need to know" – she stated.

"Jon is not our brother" – Arya said – "He's a Targaryen" – she hugged her knees.

The sadness in her voice hurt Sansa. Arya clearly wasn't happy about Jon's true parentage.

"How did you –" – she tried to speak, but Arya interrupted her.

"Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows, Sansa" – she harshly said – "I'm not deaf" – she added.

Their eyes locked.

There was an uncomfortable silence. So much was unsaid.

A bad feeling inside Sansa grew stronger and her doubts returned.

Did Arya know about her and Jon? Did she hear Littlefinger's words?

Her own doubts and fears were consuming her.

She never cared about Arya's opinions or thoughts, but now she did. She wanted her approval. She wanted her sister's support. She wanted Arya to be happy for her, for them.

She wanted to tell her the truth, but the words refused to leave her mouth.

She wished Jon was by her side. He would've known what to say. He would've known how to speak with Arya.

It was getting colder as the sun dipped to touch the edge of the horizon.

"He has been sending out patrols to find you" – Sansa spoke quietly.

"I know" – Arya said, avoiding her sister's gaze.

"You know?" – Sansa frowned.

She quickly understood Arya's words.

The Lady of Winterfell shivered; she went suddenly cold all over, cold as winter.

Her lungs hurt.

For a moment, she wanted to cry.

"We've been looking for you!" – she got up from the ground – "We've been out of our minds with worry! We thought you were dead, and all this time you've been dodging our scouts?" – she felt her voice rise, but she didn't bother to force it back down – "Why? Why didn't you come home?"

When she looked at Arya the truth sent a chill over her entire body, goose-bumps breaking out on her arms.

"Gods... You did come home, didn't you?" – she breathed the question.

Sansa could hear her own heart beating.

She ran her fingers through her short hair and blinked away the pinpricks of tears welling up in her eyes.

She felt a weight on her chest; her body started trembling

"Arya!" – Sansa exclaimed.

She was incensed; her blue eyes snapping fire.

"I saw you!" – Arya yelled back at her – "I saw you" – she repeated a bit quieter – "You were playing with Ghost in Godswood … and then I saw Jon" – her voice broke on _Jon_ ; she took a deep breath –"He was hidden behind a tree and his gaze was on you" – she added.

Sansa gulped. She remembered that day: Ghost was trotting at Jon's side when a sound caught his attention – Arya?

It was the day she'd seen the livid bruises that plagued Jon's skin and a bandage wrapped around his torso stained with blood.

"You were there? Why didn't you say something?" – she asked softly, a painful sadness in her voice.

"I watched you talk and …" – Arya continued to say, ignoring Sansa's questions – "And you made him smile" – she stammered – "I could always make Jon smile"

– _not you_ –Sansa heard her unspoken words.

The Lady of Winterfell bit her lower lip.

Arya rose from the rock.

She caught her ragged breath as the image of Jon invaded her mind.

She remembered all the times Jon held her in his arms, all the times he kissed her brow, all the times he told her bedtime stories.

She remembered how safe and happy he made her feel. Jon always made her problems go away.

Arya loved Winterfell but she never seemed to fit, no more than Jon had… yet she could always make him smile.

She would give anything to be with him now, to feel his hand muss up her hair once more and to hear him finish a sentence with her.

Jon was her favorite. He would always be her favorite.

 _But you're no longer his favorite_ – a little voice in her head said.

Arya felt a sharp pain in her chest, as if she had been stabbed.

She was no longer his favorite. She was no longer his sister. She was no longer his family.

Arya shook her head, whishing she could shake all the confusing conflicting emotions eating at her. She failed.

"He was looking at you with a stupid grin on his face, and I realized that everything was different now" – she managed to say – "I know that he's not our brother, but I kept telling myself that he was … that he was still my brother … but he isn't" – she closed her eyes for a second – "He's king. He's a Targaryen. He has a new family. He'll never call me 'little sister' ever again" – she stammered – "Everything is different now. Why would I want to return home?" – Arya shrugged – "Jon doesn't need me anymore… You never did"

Sansa felt a weight on her chest.

She did her best to breathe normally but her emotions kept getting the best of her.

"You're wrong" – she stuttered– "I need you, Arya" – even to her own ears her voice sounded desperate – "And Jon needs you too" – she continued to say as tears started to form in her eyes – "He may not be our brother, but you will always be his little sister. What Jon and you have is something that he and I will never have because I never saw him like a brother … but you did, and you still do" – she explained.

She wanted her words to be the right words. And most important, she wanted Arya to believe her.

Arya looked everywhere but at Sansa. She clenched her fingers into fists and struggled for breath.

She wanted to believe her so much that it caused a dull ache, a longing she couldn't explain.

"You loved him all your life. The truth about his parentage doesn't change that" – Sansa insisted – "No one could ever replace you, Arya. He's still your brother" – she reached out and stroked Arya's hair – "Trust me" – she added, tenderly.

The younger Stark bit her trembling lip.

Oh, she wanted to believe her, wanted to believe it was all that simple. But how could it be?

As if hearing her thoughts, Sansa spoke:

"I mean, can you look at Jon and see a _man_? A very good-looking man?" – she asked, arching an eyebrow.

Arya's eyes widened as soon as she understood her sister's words.

 _Can you look at Jon and see a man?_

She almost lost her balance.

 _A very good-looking man?_

"Gods, no!" – she exclaimed, making a face – "Ew, gross!" – she shook her head – "No!" – she added, twisting her face in disgust.

Sansa laughed.

"See? Nothing changed" – she said.

Arya's gaze found Sansa's. She saw something in her eyes, something she understood all too well: they were alike… both alone and wounded by the war.

Her thoughts traveled and she remembered her father's words:

 _Sansa is your sister. You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts. You need her, as she needs you._

A thick tear rolled down her cheek.

"I need you too" – Arya said softly, making Sansa smile.

The Lady of Winterfell caressed her sister's cheek, wiping away her tear.

Arya threw herself into her embrace; it was their first hug, ever.

Sansa held her close to her, squeezing her tight.

Arya sobbed.

 _The pack survives_ – their father seemed to whisper in their ears.

* * *

 **Again, sorry for the wait. After watching season 7 (and the boat scene) my muse decided to get into a coma (deep sleep, a state of extreme unresponsiveness…), anyway I'm back!**

 **I hope you liked this chapter (and the small reference to chapter 2 of this fanfic).**

 **Thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think! (:**


	15. Checkmate

**Happy reading!**

* * *

 _It wasn't so easy though, ending the war. A war is a huge fire; the ashes from it drift far, and settle slowly_ — Margaret Atwood

* * *

As tired as she was, Arya couldn't stomach getting any rest knowing Gendry was somewhere on the woods.

Sansa rested her head on her shoulder without a word, shutting her eyes and pushing out a trembling breath.

Arya slouched against the log they were leaning against, letting her shoulders drop with exhaustion.

Her heart felt like two pounds of lead.

She couldn't stop thinking about Gendry.

The metallic tang of despair filled her mouth.

Arya tried to tell herself she was mistaken, that she could never care for him this much, but the hollow in her heart told its own story.

Pain stabbed.

Better if they'd never grown close, she thought. Her mouth twisted in a pained smile. She couldn't bring herself to wish that. Even now she couldn't regret her feelings.

Arya let out a heavy and unladylike breath.

She tried to keep her mind occupied and not think about Gendry. There were some memories, though, that never faded.

She remembered Nymeria and the rocks she'd thrown at her, to protect her, to save her. Since that day that was all she ever did. She kept throwing rocks at people … only this time the rocks were meant to save them _and_ herself.

She thought that if she didn't let anyone in, she wouldn't get hurt when they left, because everyone she'd ever loved had left her.

Father, Mother, Robb and Rickon were dead.

Bran was nowhere to be found.

Jon was no longer her brother.

And now Gendry was probably dead.

 _Because of her –_ a voice at the back of her mind reminded her.

Arya shut her eyes.

She should have used more rocks. She should have made him run.

If he had ran, he wouldn't have stayed behind. He would be safe, happy.

She should have made him hate her. The rocks were meant to make him hate her.

But Gendry was too honorable to leave her, too good to hate her.

Arya shivered.

Gendry reminded her of her father sometimes; he had a good sweet heart beneath his solemn face… just like her father, and just like Jon.

"Why do you think Father didn't tell us the truth?" – the words stumbled out of her mouth, practically on their own – "About Jon, I mean?"

Sansa moved her head, so she could look at her sister.

"To protect him" – she said – "Robert Baratheon wanted the Targaryen lineage extinct" – she explained – "If he knew that Jon was Rhaegar Targaryen's son he would have killed him"

Arya remained silent for a moment.

"Mother wouldn't have hated Jon if Father had told us the truth" – she spoke – " _You_ wouldn't have hated Jon" – she added.

"I didn't hate Jon" – Sansa stated.

Arya arched an eyebrow at her.

"You were awful, just admit it" – she said.

 _I was awful, just admit it_ – Sansa's own voice invaded her ears; she remembered the way Jon had smiled at her.

Whatever Jon was, for her, in that moment, he felt like home.

"I was occasionally awful" – Sansa said – "I sometimes wonder how could I've been so blind … He's so easy to love" – she tried to smile, but she could've sworn her voice cracked.

The Lady of Winterfell yanked a blade of grass out of the dirt, worrying it between her fingers.

"Do you?" – Arya asked after a few seconds of silence; Sansa looked at her, confused – "Do you love him?" – she asked again.

"I do" – Sansa smiled.

"Because he's king?" – Arya immediately asked; her voice was steel and stone.

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek.

She wanted to yell at Arya. She wanted to tell her sister that she was wrong and to lecture her about how harsh and wrong and cruel her words were, but she didn't do any of those things.

She understood why Arya had said those words. She wished she didn't, but she did.

Arya didn't know her. She only knew the old Sansa, the girl who used to bicker over little things, the girl who liked nice things (things that made her feel better than everyone), the girl who dreamed about princes and knights and kings…

Sansa took a deep breath.

"No" – she said – "I've been in love with him before I even knew that he was not our broth –" – Sansa stopped talking; she sighed, trying to find the right words – "I love him because he's Jon" – _my Jon_ , she added to herself – "I never thought I would be happy again, but then I found him … and everything changed" – she tried to explain – "I love him more than should be acceptable" – a breathless little laugh escaped from her.

Arya seemed to accept her answer.

The smile that spread across Sansa's face was so warm and happy, that Arya smiled back.

Jon and Sansa had found each other again moons before she had even considered coming back to Westeros, to Winterfell.

She couldn't find it in herself to begrudge Sansa's feelings.

"What about you?" – her sister's voice made her return to reality.

"What about me?" – Arya asked, meeting Sansa's eyes.

"You and Gendry" – Sansa explained

"There is no _me and Gendry_ " – Arya scoffed.

"Anyone who spends five minutes with you can see how you feel about each other" – Sansa stated, noticing the way Arya was wringing her hands nervously; she took one in hers.

The younger Stark opened her mouth but no words came out of it.

Her cheeks were almost scarlet, so hot they could melt snow.

Her right hand went to her forehead. After a moment, she closed her eyes and shook her head, working to control her emotions. She failed.

Her heart lurched, banging against her ribcage.

When she opened her eyes, Sansa was looking at her, waiting for her.

Arya tried to slow her breathing. Tried to control her feelings. Control her emotions.

She forced herself to calm down, so she could organize her thoughts.

 _Why was she so nervous?_

She was a grown woman.

She probably wouldn't ever see Gendry again, anyway, she thought with a sadness too deep for words.

"We shared a kiss" – she admitted; her heart was hammering.

"He kissed you?" – Sansa put a hand over her own mouth, trying to hide her excitement.

Never in a million years did she imagine herself having this sort of conversation with Arya. It felt good. It felt like the type of thing sisters should do.

"I kissed him" – Arya corrected her.

"You kissed him?" – Sansa did not even try to hide surprise at Arya's announcement.

"Aye" – Arya admitted, scratching the back of her ear – "But he doesn't know"

Sansa frowned, confused.

"What do you mean he doesn't know?" – she asked.

"He doesn't remember it" – Arya said, before her thoughts traveled:

 _A sound distracted her._

 _The scouts they'd been dodging had returned._

 _They hadn't lost them._

 _Arya gripped Needle._

 _The sound of an anguished moan caught her attention._

 _She turned her head and found Gendry with his back against a tree sleeping._

 _One of his hands was draped loosely over his chest, the other open at his side._ _He was damp from sweat and his body was shaking._

 _If he didn't stop making noises, Jon's soldiers would found them and all of her running would be for nothing._

 _He needed to be silent. He needed to wake up._

 _Arya approached him and at that precise moment he moved._

 _He was whimpering and his face was contorted in agony._

" _Gendry" – she called softly – "Gendry, wake up"_

 _Arya was about to rest a palm on his shoulder, when she remembered Maester Luwin once telling her that it was best not to wake a person in the middle of a nightmare._

 _She froze mid-gesture, uncertain of what to do._

 _Suddenly, a shout sounded somewhere close._

 _Gendry's eyes darted back and forth behind his shut eyelids._

 _His hand jerked, tightened against his chest._

" _No" – the shout that issued from his contorted mouth sounded like it'd been torn from his throat – "Arya…"_

 _Her heart contracted._

 _Was he dreaming about her?_

 _Arya shook her head. She couldn't lose focus._

 _The men were close._

 _Gendry needed to stop talking in his sleep._

 _Her head spun._

 _She needed to do something._

 _Arya took Gendry's cheek in her hand, turned his head slightly, and kissed him._

 _All at once, the noise stopped._

 _He was the first man she'd ever kissed._

 _She could feel the hammering of his heart with hers, a passion sweeping through her body from her lips to her toes._

 _Unconsciously, she buried her hands in the thick silk of his hair; it was soft and warm between her fingertips as she toyed with it idly._

 _Hot pulses of need fired through her as her lips felt the subtle pressure of his; his lips moving against hers in a gentle exploration._

 _But then it all changed._

 _A searching stroke of his tongue against the seam of her mouth made the kiss became something else entirely._

 _Arya opened her mouth, brazenly playing with the stab and thrust of his tongue._

 _Gendry made a pleased noise in the back of his throat and his arms came around her, pulling her tight against him, onto his lap._

 _His right hand cupped the back of her head, his broad fingers splaying in her hair, the warmth from his skin spreading over her face like the sun._

 _Alarms began shrieking in the back of her head._

 _Arya's heavy eyelids opened._

 _Her heart lurched, banging against her ribcage._

 _Abruptly, she pushed Gendry away, hard enough that he let go of her._

 _Her chest rose and fell in nervous fluxes of air._

 _Gendry's eyes flew open. For a moment he looked simply dazed._

 _In that moment, Arya realized she wanted him as something more than a friend._

 _A sort of fear swept across her eyes._

 _She sucked in a breath; the urge to run almost took over._

 _Her right hand found the handle of her sword._

 _Then she hit him with the hilt of Needle across the head, knocking him unconscious… and erasing any evidences of their shared moment._

"It doesn't matter. I probably won't ever see him again, anyway" – Arya said, avoiding eye-contact.

She felt a sharp pain in her chest, as if she had been stabbed.

She shook her head. Her breathing came hard and sharp.

"You will" – Sansa stated; she grabbed Arya's hand – "And I think you should tell him about –"

Arya rose to her feet, so Sansa's hand was no longer touching hers.

"No!" – she ran a frustrated hand over her face – "I can't…"

"Why not?" – Sansa insisted.

Arya shivered.

Her father's voice echoed in her head:

 _You will marry a high lord and rule his castle. And your sons shall be knights and princes and lords._

 _No_ – she had said – _That's not me._

Arya caught her ragged breath.

"That's not me…" – she said so low that she didn't know if she had spoken at all.

– … _that's Sansa._

"Why can't you just admit your feelings for him? It's so obvious" – Sansa spoke – "A blind man could see it" – she added, smiling.

Arya's shook her head.

She couldn't admit her feelings for him.

It was easier to be alone; it was less scary.

She couldn't shape her life around love and then watch it fall apart.

She just couldn't.

She couldn't let him in.

He would regret tying himself to her.

She _knew_ he would.

Sooner or later Gendry would begin to resent her because she was not a lady.

She wouldn't bear to watch that happen.

Arya did her best to breathe normally but her emotions kept getting the best of her.

"I'm not like you!" – she exclaimed – "You can sew and dance and sing. You write poetry. You know how to dress. You play the high harp and the bells …" – she continued to say – "I'm not a lady" – she added – "I even told Father that I didn't want to get married…"

"You want to marry Gendry?" – Sansa's eyes widened.

"What … I …" – Arya stammered.

Suddenly, a twig snapped loudly in the woods, a small distance from camp.

Arya and Sansa stared up into the dark woods. The younger Stark gripped the sword sitting alongside her; the Lady of Winterfell seized a dagger from her weapons belt.

They both tentatively strayed from the campside.

Taking slow cautious steps, Arya and Sansa made their way through the trees.

Arya grabbed Sansa's arm.

"Wait" – she muttered warily.

A figure approached them.

Arya took a step forward, ready to strike.

Suddenly, she froze mid-gesture.

She would have recognized him anywhere, at any time, no matter how dark the room or how unexpected the sight of him.

Her heart started to beat faster as soon as her eyes met his. A small shock of longing went through her. She was drawn to his warm blue eyes.

"Gendry" – his name escaped Arya's mouth in a shuddering whisper – "You're not dead"

Her heart was pounding.

Gendry had cuts on his cheeks, hands and arms, but he was alive. He was safe.

She threw her arms around him, hugging him tight.

Gendry was taken aback for a split second, before he finally embraced her in return, rubbing slow circles on her back, bringing her closer without even thinking.

Sansa watched through red-rimmed eyes.

 _They're so beautiful together_ – she thought.

A moment later they drew back.

Arya felt her cheeks flush.

Emotions she didn't dare name rose in her throat, and she choked them back because she couldn't let herself feel so much for Gendry.

She pursed her lips and didn't look him in the eye.

"I'm glad you're alright, Gendry" – Sansa said, touching his forearm and offering him a warm smile – "How did you manage to escape?" – she asked.

Gendry cleared his throat.

"I had help" – he said, before looking over his shoulder.

Sansa and Arya followed his gaze; they immediately saw red eyes gleaming in the dark woods.

The direwolf approached them soundlessly, like a cloudy white shadow.

"Ghost…" – Sansa breathed.

She took a few steps before dropping to her knees and wrapping her arms around the wolf's neck.

Ghost sniffed deeply of her, accepting the embrace.

Arya's heart thundered in her chest as she looked at Ghost.

Memories flashed through her mind. Incidents long since forgotten. Insignificant events. Simple, happy times. The moment Jon and the boys arrived home with six direwolf pups; Ghost much smaller, licking her hand; Nymeria sleeping at the foot of her bed.

 _I told her to run, to go be free, that I didn't want her anymore. Only she kept following._

A sudden and sharp pain of sadness and loss filled her, and she shuddered.

 _I hit her twice. She whined and looked at me and I felt so 'shamed, but it was right, wasn't it? The queen would have killed her._

She shut her eyes.

 _It was right_ – her father had said – _And even the lie was … not without honor._

Suddenly, she felt something warm and soft touching her left hand.

Arya looked down; Ghost was licking her hand.

A sob rose in her chest.

She slid her sword back into her sheath, before dropping to her knees and wrapping her arms around Ghost's neck.

The direwolf smelled like North, like her childhood, like home.

She giggled when a warm pink tongue darted out to lick the underside of her chin.

Half-unconsciously she turned her head and found Gendry's deep blue eyes staring at her.

His lips curved into a half smile.

Arya's breath turned uneven as she thought how astonishingly beautiful he was.

A rush of heat flashed across her skin.

She pressed her face into Ghost's fur, hiding her smile.

* * *

 **A fortnight later**

The Targaryen army was like a city on the march. Scouts ranged far ahead of the main column, alert for any sign of enemies, while outriders guarded their flanks.

They missed nothing.

Jon's eyes were drawn to the caste.

Much of Harrenhal had far gone into decay, however its walls were incredibly thick and its rooms were built on a scale that would be more comfortable for giants than humans. From outside the gatehouse, only the tops of five immense towers could be seen because the height of the walls obscured the view of them.

Of the castle's five towers, the shortest was half again as high as the tallest one in Winterfell, yet none of the towers were proper, being bent, lumped, and cracked from the melting of the stone during the burning of Harrenhal by the Targaryen dragons three centuries earlier.

It was said by some that Harrenhal's Wailing Tower was occupied by ghosts. Jon knew it was occupied by Margaery Tyrell … and Sansa.

Rage flowed in his veins. If someone dared to hurt a hair on her head, (more) blood would spill.

Most of the Tyrell men were formed into shieldwalls; companies of archers were higher up, in the Tower of Dread, one of Harrenhal's major towers.

The enemy had the advantage of high ground.

"They got reinforcements coming from the south. If those forces hit the crossing while – " – Ser Davos said.

"It is time" – Jon cut him off.

He pulled Longclaw free, signaling the advance.

The King in the North led his men towards the fight.

Horns blew as the archers drew up behind.

A moment later, arrows flew into the lines of men making up the Tyrell shieldwall.

Shouts and cries rose up.

The enemy archers took their own shot. Hundreds of arrows arched down from the Tower of Dread to hit the front ranks.

Scores fell to the ground, yet the advance did not fall apart, it charged.

Ser Davos commanded all archers stop to loose straight at the shieldwalls as Jon's men approached the Tyrell army.

The enemy shieldwall held steady with spears and pikes aimed forward.

For the first time in a long time Jon's mind cleared and all that was left were his actions and his reactions.

It was a chaotic skirmish of riders and infantry.

There was blood everywhere.

Hours later, horses and riders were being impaled all down the line, falling in ever growing numbers.

The King in the North signaled the men to form columns.

A spear cut through his horse's armor.

Jon struggled to get his mount back under control.

The riders formed together into tight columns so Ser Davos's archers, further back, could get a glimpse of their targets.

The Tyrell lines frayed.

Jon dismounted, cutting and opening the enemy lines.

His breathing was labored, his legs burning.

He saw riders falling, while others fled.

The battlefield was a mangled mess; torn flesh and blood everywhere.

Jon blocked a slash aimed at Grey Worm's back and shoved.

The King in the North pivoted on his foot, slashing down the man's calf. Then, he slit his throat open.

Jon had just stepped back from the body when Ser Loras Tyrell rode straight at him, sword slashing downwards, but Jon was faster. He met the blow and threw it aside as the man passed.

Ser Loras charged again.

Jon sidestepped the man's attack and cut at the horse's leg. Both knight and the horse screamed horribly as the animal tumbled and threw him from the saddle.

The King in the North thrust his sword deep into the Ser Loras Tyrell's chest.

Breathing heavily, he stared down emotionless at the dying man.

"Your Grace!" – Brienne's shout caught Jon's attention – "Your Grace! They're laying down arms" – she added – "We've won!"

Jon stared down at the red blood coating his hands.

The reality of what had just happened began to sink in.

Men cheered while most of the Tyrell men still fighting began to drop their weapons.

Jon broke into a run.

* * *

Harrenhal's Wailing Tower had no roof, only incredibly thick walls partially ruined and half melted; the floors were smooth slate.

The first thing Jon noticed was how quiet it was.

The King in the North was familiar with the story of the Burning of Harrenhal: it was a major engagement in the War of Conquest, in which Aegon the Conqueror used his dragon Balerion to burn the castle of Harrenhal; the entire castle was blasted with dragon-fire.

Jon could still remember Old Nan's tale:

 _And King Harren learned that thick walls and high towers are small use against dragons. For dragons fly._

Jon didn't have a dragon. He didn't need a dragon.

His blade was slick with blood.

He walked in direction of the only table in the chamber; his steps echoing through the deserted room.

His hands were red with blood and his shirt was stained with it.

Margaery Tyrell's back was turned to him.

She was facing the dark window, seeing a clear reflection of him in the glass.

The table stood between them.

"Where is she?" – Jon asked; his voice sounded terribly loud in the silence of the room.

Margaery remained silent as a tomb.

"Where is she?" – he growled.

"She's gone" – Margaery spoke, finally.

Jon's heart stopped, clutched between icy fingers.

 _She's gone._

He let out a shaky breath.

The King in the North shook his head, slowly at first, and then hard.

 _No, no, no._

Sansa was all he had in the world. No, she couldn't be gone.

Dead.

His skin prickled.

He shuffled back a few steps. Sansa couldn't be dead. She couldn't be. This couldn't be real.

Trying to regain his senses, he concentrated on controlling his breathing while his heart rate continued to increase.

A boiling terror crashed over him.

Jon saw again in his mind's eye Ygritte's dead body. His own hands around her body.

"No" – he said – "You're lying"

Jon swallowed the hard lump settling at the base of his throat while tightening his grip around his blade.

"She's gone" – Margaery spoke again – "Dead"

"I don't believe you" – Jon said, a hint of desperation coloring his voice.

His foot inched forward, but suddenly his whole body halted.

What he noticed next sent chills up his spine.

On the table was a red braid – Sansa's braid.

He froze in horror.

Jon let the blade slip from his fingers and fall to the ground.

He felt lightheaded, as if all the blood had drained out of his brain.

 _She's gone._

He felt Margaery's words clawing at his guts, felt nails pierce his skin. And then the terrible agony of his bowels being ripped out.

He ran a hand through his hair. Normally one to keep calm, he was starting to panic.

 _Dead_.

This could not be happening.

He felt an ache within him, a fury.

 _I have lost everything. Lost everything. Everything._

He felt like he might faint; his body was shaking and he felt detached.

He couldn't move.

Jon felt so cold he felt like he'd been buried in snow.

Darkness was spinning around him.

He couldn't stop thinking about the fact that Sansa had died.

Hundreds of horrible scenarios ran through his head.

 _How had she died? What had happened in the moments leading to her death? Had she suffered?_

Guilt pounded at him.

Jon felt as if his blood was rushing through his veins.

"Jon!"

Someone was calling his name, but he didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to hear it, because he knew it wasn't Sansa's voice.

A warm hand touched his forearm.

The King in the North turned his head and met Daenery's eyes. Then, a movement caught the corner of his eye.

He heard a click.

Margaery pointed a crossbow at him.

Before Jon could see her pull the trigger, Daenerys launched herself at him, making him land hard on the floor; his head slamming painfully.

His vision wavered.

His chest was aching with Dany's weight upon it.

Jon moved his right arm. His hand touched Daenerys's back.

He felt something warm and damp against his skin.

Blood.

* * *

 **Thank you so much for reading this chapter.**

 **Review?**


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